Gay Harry Potter-06-2b-Harold of Hufflepuff
by jerome1980
Summary: Harold is a terrific prankster and sportsman who spends five fun-filled, but sex-free years at Hogwarts before surprising himself by turning gay. He is surprised again when the Club allocates him a Ravenclaw boy with a similar world view. But his biggest surprise is yet to come.


GAY HARRY POTTER-06-2b-TALES FROM THE NINE O'CLOCK CLUB HAROLD OF HUFFLEPUFF

**1**

Up to the age of eleven, Harold Holmes was home-schooled; or as old-fashioned wizards and witches would have it, _familied_.

That did not mean that the estimable Mr and Mrs Holmes had to bear the sole burden of inculcating the three R's into him: from the age of eight, Harold attended The Madam Moodys' Junior Lyceum; twice a week, his mother used the Floo Network to transport him to and from the Moody sisters' worthy establishment.

Harold's first teacher was Mr Wrigley, a tall, distinguished-looking wizard of about fifty who was given the challenge of tidying up the lax handwriting which Harold had learned from his mother.

As far as reading and arithmetic, were concerned, though, Harold was a long way ahead of the rest of his form, and he was soon moved up to attend Madam Lillian Moody.

This was good, of course, but he rather missed the reading lessons in the lower form: Mr Wrigley's method was for each of the nine children to read the next passage aloud, while sitting on his knee with his arms around them, supporting the book.

It was a position much favoured by his parents, and Harold felt quite at home, snuggling into Mr Wrigley's lap, while reciting such literary gems as _Peter and the Pretty Potion_. His one gripe was that, whatever their standard of reading, Mr Wrigley was apt to favour the girls with more time in the coveted spot than the boys—though to be fair, pats on the bottom were bestowed regardless of gender.

There could be no question of lap-sitting or bottom-patting with Miss Lillian Moody, however: her appearance—rimless spectacles glinting under a mop of steely-grey hair—and her sharp tongue, discouraged the very idea of physical contact.

The Miss Moodys had an excellent reputation within the world of magic, and could afford to pick and choose. Preferring a quiet life, they tended to choose girls: Miss Lillian's Tuesday set had three boys and eight girls; her Friday set four and seven, respectively.

It was said that there was a male predominance on Mondays, the good ladies no doubt perennially hopeful that the wildness of the young wizards would have dissipated over the weekend.

But Tuesday and Fridays were Harold's days, and it was on Fridays that Harold teamed up with James Gloyne.

It was only in later years that Harold made the acquaintance of the Muggle film actors Laurel and Hardy. He was immediately struck by the physical resemblance which the young Holmes and Gloyne must have had to the two Hollywood stars.

It was not that Harold was fat; but he was fairly short and very broad, with a powerful trunk and thick limbs.

James, on the other hand, was tall and definitely thin, with an extraordinary quirk that lasted into adulthood: his hips were substantially wider than his shoulders.

Their hair was somewhat similar, being what might be described as pale mousey, with James's almost white, and Harold's almost yellow.

They were neither of them dim, but James was undeniably the brighter. However, he looked less intelligent than he really was; Harold, in contrast, looked _more_ intelligent. Over the single year that they went to hag school together, their friendship became stronger and stronger, with an underlying basis that Harold was the leader and James the thinker.

They were making plans to spend a lot of the summer together, but James's parents spoiled things by deciding that their son was as literate and numerate as any young wizard needed to be, and withdrew him from the school.

So Harold was looking at a lonely summer. He was ten years old now, and needed a wider area to explore than the family home. Occasional Floos to friends and relations were not enough. Besides, it was a whole year until he would be going to Hogwarts, and some youthful company would be welcome.

Then inspiration struck: he asked his parents if he could go for a wander round the nearby Muggle village of Witeney Pass.

It was as though he had asked to travel to a euthanasia centre on another planet.

Mr and Mrs Holmes were old-fashioned folk whose only regular dealings with Muggles consisted of purchases of Muggle goods from the shops and stalls of Diagon Alley. Their excursions into Muggle Land had all been guided by a Ministry-licensed courier under a whole spell-book of Invisibility and Confunding charms.

But Harold was persistent, and after consulting everyone they could think of, and finally reassuring themselves that Harold would not be killed by one of these motor cars, and that they would not find themselves in Azkaban due to his gross breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, his parents consented.

"After all, some witches and wizards are actually _born_ to Muggle parents," said Mrs Holmes.

They had a day in Diagon Alley, where an impatient goblin in Gringotts Bank explained about Muggle money.

"So a penny is a pee and lots of pennies are pence or pee or pees," said Mrs Holmes, at last having got it.

"It's very confusing," said Mr Holmes.

"They used to have a much better system," said the goblin.

"What, with a ninety-nine pee coin?" asked Mr Holmes.

"Sort of," said the goblin, not wishing to prolong his dealings with such ignorant people.

They had a stroke of luck at one of the market stalls in the Alley: a very helpful wizard called Mundungus Fletcher told them that he had just received a small and select shipment of Muggle boys' clothing: the latest fashions and at rock-bottom prices.

"If that's rock-bottom, I'd hate to think what normal prices are," said Mr Holmes as they walked away with the clothes stored in a surprisingly posh carrier-bag ("That's my father—Harrod Fletcher," said Mundungus.)

"We'll all need Muggle clothes on Hogwarts Express day, anyway," said Mrs Holmes.

Harold nagged his parents and they let him change into his first ever Muggle clothes in the Leaky Cauldron—truth to tell, all three of them were equally excited.

He had often stood in the doorway of the inn, looking at the astonishing ants-nest-like world of the Muggles. Now he was allowed out for a practice walk a little way along the Charing Cross Road, returning as full of it as if he had been to distant Cathay.

The next few days were frustrating: Harold had to wait for the Muggle school holidays, for fear that he would be picked up by the Truant Police. He used the time gainfully by repeatedly reading _Electricity, Football and Motors: A Book of Muggle Weirdness_.

By the time he set off down the path on a morning in mid-July, he felt as though he was an old hand in the Muggle world.

His confidence was shaken when a woman with a baby in a push-chair asked him: "Please, where can I find the number four?"

That was an easy one. "Between number three and number five," he said.

"Piss off, you cheeky little monkey!" she shouted, "I only asked a polite question."

Chastened, he hurried off towards the village centre. There was more to Muggle life than he had supposed.

Shops should be easy to handle, though: the book of words recommended the phrase _Just looking round, thank you_ if anyone approached.

This worked in the bakers, and wasn't necessary in the supermarket, where everyone was looking round anyway.

The chemist was more interesting: though short for alchemist—a word every wizard understood—chemists were actually potions shops. After ten minutes looking at the labels, it was clear to Harold that this particular chemist seemed to deal in the quack-remedy end of the market: stuff to make you beautiful, cure trivial ailments, and live forever—perhaps they were alchemists after all.

There seemed to be some more businesslike stuff in a separate room at the back of the shop. He wandered in and was immediately told: "You can't come in here, young man!" by a flustered Asian man.

"Just looking round, thank you," said Harold.

"Well, you're not allowed in here," said the man.

"Aren't these things for sale?"

"Not without a prescription."

"What's that?"

"Something you get from a doctor."

"Oh . . . Bye then!"

The alchemist was looking decidedly unwelcoming.

The last shop in the row had a fancy vase of flowers in the window. Surely he couldn't go wrong with a florist!

Inside, everything was plain, with a desk rather than a counter, and a number of chairs upholstered in dark plush. The walls were lined with solemn, abstract prints. The only flowers were in a small, plain vase on the desk.

No-one was in attendance, but there was a bell-push on the desk which produced an austere, youngish lady, dressed in a sombre trouser-suit.

"Good morning, Sir," she said quietly, "How may we assist you?"

"Just looking round, thank you," said Harold.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I came to see some flowers, actually."

"Ah," said the woman, showing enlightenment. She opened a tasteful drawer in the desk, and handed Harold a flower-catalogue, saying: "We like to deal with Fessa Fruits: a local company of impeccable discrimination and empathy."

Harold read:

_Funeral wreaths are one of the most popular and fitting sympathy tributes sent by close family during difficult times of loss and sadness. Classically beautiful and styled to perfection by our talented and skilled florists using the finest, freshest flowers . . ._

_Merlin's beard!_ he thought, _They only do funeral flowers!_

He continued flicking through the book, simulating an interest, and wondering what happened to the untalented, skilled florists, and the finest, oldest flowers.

Good Heavens! Two hundred and fifty pounds—not pennies, pence, pee or pees—for a scraggy bunch of flowers to go on a coffin. Suddenly grave-robbing seemed a good profession.

"May I ask for whom the floral tribute is intended?" said the woman. She had taken out a handsome, gold-embossed ledger.

"Er . . ." said Harold; then he had a brainwave: "We're saving up for when Granny goes," he said, "I'm getting her the flowers."

"That _is_ sweet," said the woman.

"Right! Got it! See you in many years, I hope," he said, scuttling out the shop at unfunereal pace."

He wondered if there were specialist Muggle florists for wedding, birthday and Christmas flowers as well; but glancing over the shop, he saw a sign saying Funeral Services; so they did the whole burying.

His mother's last injunction had been not to get himself noticed. He was on course to fail dismally.

But then he saw a recreation ground with swings, slides and roundabouts. This was something he definitely understood!

All the other kids were younger than him, but he had a happy half-hour playing with the kit.

On the way home, he bought a loaf of bread: such a handy source would save his mother baking or Flooing to Diagonal Alley. He also bought a Muggle newspaper.

Both gifts were failures: the bread had a vile texture, and was colourless, odourless, and flavourless; and none of the family could make any sense of the newspaper.

Over the next few days, Harold visited the village several times. He felt that he had exhausted its potential and was considering having a day trip on a Muggle bus to the nearby city of Kennesmaw.

Then he saw three boys of his own age playing with a ball on the rec. He had to laugh: Muggles were always getting things wrong. The ball had lost its shape, and instead of being circular, was oval so that you never knew what it would do when it bounced.

He stood watching the boys for a few minutes; then one of them called over: "Wanna play?"

Harold walked over and told them: "I've never played cricket before."

All three boys laughed, and the boy who had first asked him said: "Joker aren't you? Catch!"

He threw the silly ball hard at Harold, who caught it with ease. The boys laughed again, and the one who had done the talking told him: "Not bad! I put a lot of spin on that one."

He was an attractive, skinny, boy, with merry eyes and a comforting, fatherly sort of face.

"Throw it back, then!" he commanded, and Harold, realising that spinning the ball about its long axis would keep it stable through the air, sent a fast one to the boy, who caught it, saying: "You've done that before."

"Honest," said Harold, "I've never played cricket before."

There was more laughter, and another boy spoke—a tall black-haired boy, with an open, good-looking countenance. "Are you serious?" he asked.

It was Harold's turn to laugh. "I must look stupid," he said, "I think I'd know if I'd played cricket before."

"What are you: an alien?" asked the first boy, almost hysterical with laughter, "Do you really think we're playing cricket?"

Harold did indeed think that this was the case: his book had told him that Muggles played football in winter, and cricket in summer. "I was brought up abroad," he told them.

This statement triggered an exposition (with some disputation) of the game and laws (not rules) of rugby.

Then they had practicals on kicking—punting, dropping, up-and-unders, grubbers—and passing while running.

He found out that the boy who did most of the talking was called Tom, the boy who was always laughing was called Luke, and the third boy—a smiling fair-haired hulk—was called Adam.

They made a start on tackling before Adam said: "I'm whacked," and sat down on the roundabout.

The others wandered over to join him.

"I'm Tom Wellings," said the skinny boy, offering his hand.

"Harold Holmes," he said, shaking hands and admiring the mature, slightly crumpled face underneath the fair, crew-cut hair.

Then he shook hands with the other two:

"Luke Guest."

"Adam Guest."

Adam had very sweaty hands.

"Are you cousins?" asked Harold.

"Brothers," said Luke.

"I'd never have guessed."

"We're actually twins."

"But . . . how _can_ you be? You're so unlike."

Luke laughed, and told him: "Separate eggs, of course."

Harold was bewildered at this latest manifestation of Muggle Weirdness. Did Muggle babies arrive at breakfast-time?

"What have eggs got to do with it?" he asked.

"Women have eggs as well as birds," said Tom.

"I still don't understand."

The three Witeney Pass boys explained to Harold how human life came into being. They went into great detail, with much giggling, and as it later proved, much accuracy.

"I don't fancy doing _that_ to a woman!" said Harold, when the picture was complete.

The other three agreed, but Tom qualified it with: "It'll probably seem normal when we've grown up. They're always singing songs about it at the rugger club."

"What's a rugger club?" asked Harold.

"It's our local rugby club," said Tom, "We play for them. It's called mini-rugby."

"You should come and join us, Harold," said Luke.

"Yeah!" said Adam.

"Right that's settled, then," said Tom, "Summer training is six o'clock on Tuesdays. We'll meet you here at ten to six."

"If Mum and Dad say it's okay."

"Oh, you'd better bring your dad as well," said Luke, "He'll get to meet Uncle Dave and sign the form."

"Who's Uncle Dave?"

"He's our uncle; he lives with us; he runs the mini-rugby."

"Does he play men's rugby?"

"No; he used to till his knee gave up."

"And is your dad involved with the club?"

"We never had a father; only uncles."

"Uncle Dave's the best," said Adam.

"Yeah. We'd sooner have Uncle Dave than our—" Luke stopped short of completing the sentence.

"Uncle Dave's a brill coach," said Tom, a little too quickly. There was a mystery here, thought Harold.

Mr Holmes was willing and eager, the problem of Muggle clothing being solved by a visit by Harold to C & A in Kennesmaw.

When they met at the rec, Mr Holmes was dressed in sports jacket, flannel trousers, suede shoes, with understated shirt and tie.

Tom and the Guest brothers took them to a field placarded as:

_WITENEY PASS & LIMPNESS ELY_

_Rugby Union Football Club_

_Founded 1913_

Uncle Dave was clearly impressed with Mr Holmes, soliciting his assistance in running the mini-rugby, but Mr Holmes had been well briefed by Harold and told Uncle Dave that his duties as a technical representative sometimes took him abroad, so he had to regretfully turn down the kind offer.

It was this reply, and his general reticence, that led to the universal belief in Witeney Pass that Mr Holmes was an international espionage agent working for the British Secret Service.

Harold adored the training session. It was a wonderful game, and the comradeship, physicality and craft filled a void in his life that he hadn't realised existed. He was in the Under-11 section, and would remain there for the rest of the season, even though he would turn eleven in February.

Mr Holmes commented as they walked home: "If we were rich, we'd have house-elves to do that for you."

From that day, rugby training was the highlight of Harold's week, but the spin-offs lasted through the rest of the time: the friendship with Tom, Luke and Adam; the pleasure of feeling his body getting stronger; the improvement in his mental capacities which astonished Miss Madge Moody.

He saw his friends on most days, going to the Guest or Wellings households when the weather was rough. They quite understood that no-one was allowed to visit the Holmes house because of Security.

They had an exciting day exploring the city of Kennesmaw. They felt grown-up and sophisticated, despite the fact that several of their team-mates actually _lived_ in Kennesmaw, Witeney Pass Rugby Club being popular and well-respected.

Sometimes, Tom and Harold stayed for the night with the Guests. Skinny Tom top-and-tailed with big Adam. Harold and Luke had a more comfortable fit. On such occasions, the talk was mainly of sport and cars, as Harold's book had predicted; though farts and smelly feet were also favoured as topics.

When September came, they started going to the men's rugby matches, but eighty minutes is too long for ten-year-olds to do nothing but watch, and they always reverted to playing with their own ball on the spare grass at the bottom of the Second XV field.

Then the great day came: their first competitive match.

It was ten-a-side, and Harold made the team comfortably—he was one of the star players—as did his friends.

It turned out to be anticlimactic: Witeney slaughtered the opposition; and this was true of the first few games.

A sterner challenge came in their first tournament: they found the two games of the group stage tough, but managed to win them both. The semi-final was even tougher, and they were gallant losers—and annoyingly, losers to the eventual runners-up. Still, it was a good education.

After the final, they were really crammed in the bath: forty or so boys talking happily at high volume, with another thirty queuing for a place—that meant about fifty boys were going home covered in mud. Harold knew why: there were quite a few boys at Witeney who were too embarrassed to show their privates in public—in Harold's view they should be embarrassed about their embarrassment: surely only women cared about what their bodies looked like.

He thought about this now, as he luxuriated in the lovely hot water, relaxing his muscle to release a sneaky trickle of pee, and wondering how many of his fellow bathers were doing the same. He had expected to be disturbed when he had first realised that there must be other boys who polluted the bath like him, but he'd felt instead a kind of togetherness in it. His three friends had eventually owned up when he'd broached the topic. All boys were the same really.

"This is nice, isn't it?" said big Adam, who was squeezed hip-to-hip with him.

"Yeah; everyone's so friendly," he said.

In the clubhouse afterwards, they were fed pizza washed down with blackcurrant and lemonade—Muggle drinks were better than wizard drinks.

They sang rude songs; each club having their own favourites.

On the bus home, they sang the songs that they had just learnt. Uncle Dave and the volunteer assistants didn't seem to mind.

Harold and Tom were staying at the Guests, where poor Mrs Guest had to endure five versions of the day's events, sometimes simultaneously.

Eventually things quietened down and they all watched the television for a while.

Harold's book of Muggle Weirdness had been full of praise for television: _The Muggles invented a system for conveyance of ideas to Educate, Inform and Entertain_ it said.

Harold had seen enough television by now to know that its ideals were in practice _to_ _Entertain, Entertain and Entertain_.

It wasn't simply that there was a shortage of programmes for clever people: there was a shortage of programmes suitable for anyone who wasn't a moron.

The boys all felt this, and went to their bedroom early.

It was cold so they got into bed quickly.

"Let's swap partners!" said Adam.

"I don't mind," said Harold, jumping into Adam's bed, and feeling the warmth of the big boy's body.

"This is nice, isn't it?" he said.

"Yeah; friendly," said Adam.

They replayed some of the choicer moments of the day, interpolating what-ifs, and undertaking to do better next time.

Then Harold raised a topic that had been vaguely puzzling him for the past few hours:

"You know these songs?"

"Yeah?" said Tom Wellings, who did as much talking as the other three put together.

"You know where it goes _We're all queers together_?"

"Yeah?"

"Is _Queer_ the same as _Gay_?"

"Yeah."

"And you know where it says _he shagged the Devil well_?"

"Yeah?"

"Shag means putting your prick inside a woman's fanny-slit, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

"So has the Devil got a fanny-slit?"

"No," said Tom, after a slight pause, "He put it inside the Devil's arsehole."

"That's mad!" laughed Harold.

There was a longer pause.

Then Harold said: "Why would they want to do that? You'd do it to a woman to make a baby; but why would you want to do it to a man?"

"I don't know," said Tom.

"Is it just the Devil? Or do all queers do that to each other?"

"Gays," said Luke.

"Do all gays do that to each other?"

"I think so," said Tom.

"They must be utterly, utterly weird!"

"Perhaps not all of them," said Luke.

There was an even longer pause.

Then Adam said: "Tell him, Luke."

"Yeah, he's our best friend, Luke," said Tom.

"Okay," said Luke, "But you must keep it secret, Harold."

"Promise!" said Harold.

"Well, it started with a photo," said Luke, "We found it in Mum's album. It was two men standing in front of the Eiffel Tower."

"That's in Paris," said Tom.

"They had their arms around each other's shoulders and they were smiling. There was writing underneath: _To Dear Linda_—that's Mum—_in memory of the night we played away_. Twenty-seventh of April, Nineteen seventy-nine. Love Willy plus Howard. Kiss, kiss, kiss."

Harold tried to visualise the picture.

"What were they like?" he asked.

"They were both tall," said Luke, "Willy was dark-haired and skinny; Howard was a fat blond."

"Did they play rugger?"

"No, Tom guessed what _played away_ meant, didn't you Tom?"

"Yeah," said Tom, "You could see they liked each other. I guessed they were gays and playing away meant having sex with a women."

"Mrs Guest!" said Harold.

"That's what we think," said Luke.

"Well, that shows gays aren't weird, if your mum went with them," said Harold, "Though why they do that arsehole thing, I'll never understand."

There was silence. Harold assumed that was the end of the story.

"It means more than that, Harold," said Tom.

"We were born on January the eighteenth Nineteen Eighty," said Luke.

"So you're nearly eleven like me," said Harold.

"We were born nine months after Willy and Howard played away."

"Yeah."

"Think about it, Harold: nine months."

"Eh? Oh . . . nine months! One of them's your _dad_!"

"Think again, Harold," said Tom, "Think what they looked like."

"Er . . . dark and skinny; blond and fat."

"Remember the two eggs."

"Two eggs? Oh! They're _both_ your dads—I mean Willy's Luke's dad; and Howard's Adam's dad! That's absolutely brilliant! It makes you really special!"

"I always knew they were special, anyway," said Tom.

"Do you ever get to see them?" asked Harold.

"No, they're dead," said Luke, "Mum wrote R.I.P.—that means Rest in Peace—underneath; Howard, Nineteen eighty-four; Willy, Nineteen eighty-six."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you ever talk to her about them?"

"She doesn't want to. She says it's all in the past and we should just be happy that we've got Uncle Dave."

"We are," said Adam.

After a while, Harold told them: "I'll never, ever say anything bad about gays," then, a bit later: "Have _you_ got any secrets, Tom?"

"Only that I piss in our bath," giggled Tom, "What about you, mate?"

"I've got one big secret. I'll tell you one day."

"Is it to do with your dad?"

"Sort of."

They all felt a bit solemn, and stopped talking. This soon led to sleep.

**2**

The next few months brought Harold much happiness, but there was one little annoyance: someone in the rugby club was stealing from the boys; not predictably, and not on a large scale: a little cash here and a watch or two there.

It was only when an Under-11 called Jack McDonnell missed an expensive pair of trainers that people realised that things they had assumed to be lost had been, in fact, stolen.

When the extent of the thefts became apparent, the adults took it seriously, but there was little they could do: there were groups from Under-8 to Under-14, and on training and match days, boys were in and out of the changing rooms all the time, so it was unrealistic to keep them locked.

Boys were instructed to hand over their valuables for the safe keeping of their supervisor, but boys are boys, and often they couldn't be bothered.

It didn't exactly poison the atmosphere, but thieving strikes at the heart of a team's ethos, so everyone felt that their club was a bit sullied.

It so happened that the next significant theft affected the Under-11's: Adam Doré missed a fiver after a training session. Ben Roche said that he'd seen David Blenkinsop visiting the changing rooms during the session, but Blenkinsop denied doing anything worse than peeing, when pressed by Uncle Dave and the others.

Blenkinsop was an Under-13, and a stereotype if you were looking for a petty crook: furtive in his movements, he came from a rough family, his father having been to prison a few times, and his mother sometimes having an evening job in the city, being ferried there by her husband.

In detective stories, the guilty party is usually the least likely suspect, but in real life, the reverse is the case, and Harold and his friends were convinced that Blenkinsop was the one.

He asked his father to use a magic spell to make Blenkinsop own up.

"Charm a Muggle?" laughed his father, "I'd be in Azkaban before you could blink!"

"Is there nothing we can do, Dad?"

"I seem to remember old Sluggy going on about something called _Veritaserum_."

"What's that?"

"Give 'em a shot and they can only tell the truth."

"Perfect. Where can I get some?"

"I suppose you might try the Slug and Jiggers Apothecary shop."

"I'll be off now then, Dad. Can you lend me your wand to get in to the Alley, please?"

"No fear! You need proper training before you're let loose with a wand. What you could do is take the Floo to Knockturn Alley, but for goodness' sake don't tell your mother I said so."

"No time like the present," he said.

He ran upstairs and raided his money-box before throwing a pinch of powder into the fireplace and telling the system: _Knockturn Alley!_

He emerged right at the bottom of the alley that ran off Diagon. It was a nasty place, full of unpleasant-looking shops and people. He had a sense that this was not a location to visit at night.

He walked quickly up to the more salubrious area, passed Mundungus Fletcher's stall with a cheerful greeting, and entered the apothecary's.

"Hello, young Sir, how can I help you?" asked an old, white-haired, walrus-moustached man, dressed in a black suit.

"I'd like some Veritaserum, please," he said.

The old man sniffed.

"In the first place," he said, "We make it up to order. Secondly, we can't provide it without a Ministry Certificate. Thirdly, under no circumstances would we supply it to a minor."

"It's for my dad."

"Then he'll have to come in with a Certificate."

"Okay."

Harold left the shop disappointedly. He knew that his dad would be willing to buy the potion for him, but the Ministry thing sounded serious.

He was momentarily flummoxed, but remembered that Mundungus seemed to know his way about, and made his way back down the Alley.

"Mr Fletcher," he said, "Where can I get a Ministry Certificate to buy Veritaserum?"

"Anyware 'cept the Ministry!" said Mr Fletcher, "Only used by 'ficial frensic bodies."

"Ah well," said Harold, turning to go.

" 'Arf a mo," said Mundungus, "You might be in luck: there's a nifty young gent might be able to 'elp yer. I fink this is one of 'is days wen 'e 'olds court at the Ganymede."

"Is that the Junior Ganymede Club? I saw it on the way."

"Yeah. Ask fer Mr Tom Chatterton; say I sent yer."

"Thanks!"

Harold was kept waiting for half an hour, as Mr Chatterton was with another visitor.

When he was, at last, summoned to the august presence, he was dumbstruck: Mr Chatterton was little older than a schoolboy.

"Harold isn't it?" he said, as they shook hands, "Take a seat. Call me Tom. You look surprised. Is it my age or my hair?"

Tom Chatterton had eye-dazzlingly red hair; and a lot of it: it fell halfway to his waist.

"Both," said Harold, "You must have been about twelve when you started growing your hair."

"Spot on; now how may I help you, Harold?"

"Mundungus sent me. I want a Certificate to buy Veritaserum."

"And what on earth does a sprig like you want with Veritaserum?"

"I play for a Muggle sports club and we suspect one of our members of stealing from us."

"Ah, so you're not old enough for Hogwarts?"

"I start in September."

"Seems cool. You must pardon me for asking; Dung and me may be a little dodgy, but we'd neither of us do anything for the Dark side."

"I've often been naughty," laughed Harold, "But I've never been suspected of being a Dark Wizard before."

"No, I imagine not," said Tom, also laughing, "Well, Dung knows I can do you a Certificate, but he also knows that you don't actually _need_ a Certificate, so I suppose he just wanted a second opinion on your probity."

"Don't need—?"

"Bless you! Illegal potions aren't just produced and sold through official channels. You turn up here a week from today, and I'll have a dose for you; and that will cost you the princely sum of fifteen Galleons."

Harold's face fell.

"I've only got four Galleons and three Sickles," he said, "And I don't think Dad'll cough up another eleven."

He got up to leave, but once again was stopped.

"Wait a bit, Harold," smiled Tom, "Maybe you can pay me in another way."

"I haven't got any magic skills yet."

"You've got magic in your body."

"Oh; you want some of my blood for potions. I don't see why not, provided you know when to stop."

Harold and Tom both laughed, though for different reasons.

"No, Harold," said Tom, "I was thinking along the lines of our two bodies getting together."

"Whatever for?"

"You really are an innocent, you little cutiekins! Do you know that when you get older you get urges?"

"To do what?"

"To do things with your penis."

"Oh, making babies from women's eggs! Yeah, I've got three friends who told—oh, you mean gay! I'm not having your prick up my arsehole, thanks. Blenkinsop can carry on thieving!"

He got to his feet.

"How about just using your hand?" said Tom.

"My hand?" said Harold, halfway to the door, "Whatever for?"

"Look!" said Tom, standing up to lower his pants, exposing a skinny white prick. He had the horn.

"Like this," he said, "Rub the foreskin over the knob."

This was the most bizarre suggestion that Harold had ever heard, but it seemed harmless, so he walked over, wrapped his hand around Tom's prick and started to rub.

Tom gave running instructions: "More up! . . . Less down! . . . Faster! . . . Faster! . . . That's right! . . . Go on! . . . Just like that! . . ."

Tom's prick felt hot, and Harold could feel it throbbing.

"Go on!" said Tom, "Faster! . . . Ugh! . . . Ugh! . . . Ugh! . . . Whoa!"

Tom's body had heaved about, and a blob of white liquid had shot across the room; followed by more blobs.

Some of the liquid was on Harold's hand. It was sticky. He wiped it off with his handkerchief.

"Was that okay?" he asked.

"Bloody great!" said Tom, slightly out of breath.

"What does it feel like?"

"I can't explain. You'll just have to wait a few years."

"I still don't understand why you wanted me to do it: you're so glamorous you could get hundreds of women."

"Again, Harold, you'll have to wait; and maybe you'll _never_ understand; and I assure you that I'm not the only glamorous person in the room."

"Do all men have hair like that?"

"Yeah, it's called pubic hair."

Tom had a bush of hair that was more like ginger than the fiery red that grew from his scalp.

"I'll be off, then."

"Yeah, thanks for that. See you next week—same time same place."

Harold left the hotel, or club, or whatever it was.

A scruffy boy of about the same age as Tom was standing at the door.

"Lucky bugger!" he said, but Harold scarcely heard, and wouldn't have understood if he had.

Instead he was trying to remember: was it an accident? A false memory? Or had Tom actually _kissed_ the top of Harold's head at the moment of pleasure?

It was the only disturbing incident in an otherwise successful day.

Next week came. Tom had the Veritaserum, and gave Harold instructions on its use.

Harold offered to use his hand again, and this time, kept his head well clear so Tom couldn't possibly kiss him, always supposing he'd wanted to.

This time, he smelt the white stuff on his hand. It was an unusual, pungent smell, unlike anything he'd met before. He didn't like it, but it wasn't positively repulsive. He understood the stuff now.

"This is the seed that gives women babies, isn't it?" he said.

"Yes," said Tom.

"How many of those tadpole things are in it?"

"We've just denied life to hundreds of millions of new humans."

"Weird, isn't it?"

"Yes; weird, but beautiful."

As he left the Ganymede, Harold wished he could tell _his_ Tom and the two brothers all about it; but it was a little bit discreditable, and besides, might be something that was special to wizards.

What he _did_ tell his friends, binding them to secrecy, was that he had procured a hush-hush, Secret Service Truth Drug.

The plan was to ambush Blenkinsop at the end-of-season Junior Awards Night.

It worked like a dream.

Adam accidentally barged into Blenkinsop, spilling his drink.

"You clown!" shouted Luke, "Go and get him another—no I'll go: you'd probably spill that one too."

"Sorry, Dave," said Adam, giving the performance of his life.

"These bottoms are brand-new Adidas," said Blenkinsop, "If they're stained, you'll have to buy me a new pair."

"Okay, Dave," said Adam.

Luke appeared with the new drink, which Blenkinsop gulped down.

Tom Wellings was some way away, across the room. He allowed one minute for the Truth Drug to take effect; then he came over to take his rôle as Grand Inquisitor.

"Tell me Dave," he asked, "When you stole Jack McDonnell's trainers, how did you get them out?"

"I hid them in the hedge, and came back for them next morning," said Blenkinsop.

"What was the first thing you stole?"

"Fifty pee from Liam Green."

"How many watches have you stolen?"

"Jack Dixon . . . James Price . . ."

The list went on and on.

There was silence around Tom and Blenkinsop; and the silence widened, with little shushes spreading outwards like ripples when a stone is thrown into a pond.

Inexorably, Tom asked Blenkinsop for more details. Harold had told Tom that the drug would last for eight to ten minutes, so Tom could be thorough.

When he'd elicited as much thievery as Blenkinsop, could remember, Tom ended with a throwaway last question: "What else have you done that's wrong."

"I've been shagging my brother Daniel for three years."

There were gasps. Daniel was currently the smallest of the Under-8's.

"Who else?" asked Tom.

"I've played about with lots of boys and made them play about with me."

"Anyone else in the Club?"

"No; but I fancy loads of boys; I fancy . . ."

There followed a long list of names, including Luke, Harold and Tom; but not Adam.

Harold could spot when the potion wore off: Blenkinsop's eyes seemed to light up at the same time as his body cringed at the realisation that he had confessed _everything_.

Tom, bless him, picked up the moment too.

"And now you've got it off your chest, you're going to start afresh, aren't you?" he said.

"Yeah, sorry," said Blenkinsop, and ran outside.

There was a burst of loud conversation.

"Well done lads!" said Harold to his friends.

"I didn't expect all that sex stuff," said Tom.

"You coped very well, Tom," said Harold.

Soon the Chairman called them to order, and the Distinguished Guest presented the awards.

"Are you going to collect Blenkinsop's for him, Tom?" giggled Luke.

Afterwards the Chairman and Uncle Dave came up to Tom.

"What made him confess after all these years do you think, Tom?"

"We knew he was the thief and told him if he was brave enough to confess to everything, we'd be brave enough to forgive him."

"Well, I'm afraid it's not up to us. We'll have to inform the police."

In the next few days, it became apparent that the police had thrown David Blenkinsop to the mental health people, and the rest of the Blenkinsops to the social services.

As the weeks passed, people's attitude to Blenkinsop crystallised: stealing from his clubmates was despicable, but understandable, behaviour; fancying other boys was ten times as despicable, and totally weird. Being gay was the most abnormal and unacceptable thing that a boy could be.

"Never mind, Adam," said Tom, as they lay in bed together one night, "I promise that, when I start fancying boys, you'll be on _my_ list.

**3**

After another happy summer, there were _au revoirs_ between the friends and it was time to go to Hogwarts. A host of relatives came to King's Cross to see Harold off. It seemed to him that he had been especially blessed by Fate: not only was there a blue sky, but also the most welcome presence of his old friend James Gloyne.

They talked throughout the journey on the Hogwarts Express, except for periods during which their mouths were stuffed with wizard confectionary from the trolley; and other periods when they were being grilled about the wider world of wizardry by a nice new boy called Justin Finch-Fletchley, who shared their compartment.

Justin took centre-stage as soon as the other two had finished exchanging life stories: not only was he Muggle-born, but he had attended a Muggle boarding school before, and made it sound tremendous fun.

"How do the dormitories work at Hogwarts?" asked Harold.

Two older girls explained the house system.

"So if this speaking hat puts us in the same house, we'll be sharing a dorm?" said Justin.

Harold guessed that all three boys were thinking the same thing: they were all single children, and it would be like having two brothers if they were able to do everything together at Hogwarts.

As though reading Harold's mind, Justin said: "I haven't got any brothers and sisters, but I've got a terrifically close friend. He's called Johnny Rudd, and he's going to Hogwarts next year."

The other two were silent: Harold had three terrifically close friends, but they were Muggles, and would _never_ be going to Hogwarts. He wondered how James was fixed: he hadn't mentioned any friends.

Harold's eyes drifted upwards, and he saw a J-shaped leather case on the luggage-rack.

"Is that a broomstick, James?" he asked, "You'll be in trouble straightaway: first-years aren't allowed their own."

"It's a hockey stick," said James.

"What's that?"

It turned out that hockey was a game that James had played at Muggle school. This formed another link with Harold—and, as it turned out, Justin, who had played hockey and rugby at his prep school. They talked about the two sports until it was time to don their Hogwarts uniform robes.

They had an enthralling crossing across the lake and were met by an old, female teacher with a long name, who led them in to meet the rest of the students.

As they entered the Great Hall, there were delightful nasal hints of the food to come. Harold was hungry, but first came the ceremony of Sorting.

There was the famous Hat; and it addressed them with a bit of doggerel. Harold was chiefly interested in the descriptions of the houses:

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_If you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

_Or perhaps in Slytherin _

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folk use any means_

_To gain their selfish ends._

Hufflepuff sounded the best: Harold would like to be just, loyal, patient and true; and he'd even be unafraid of toil if James were in the same house—Hufflepuff or not—and Justin would be a bit of icing on the cake.

But now the teacher was calling out the first name:

_Abbott, Hannah!_

A pleasant-looking little girl tripped up to the front, and sat down with the Sorting Hat on her head.

The Hat thought for a while before shouting: _Hufflepuff!_

Slowly the process worked its way through to:

_Finch-Fletchley!_

_Hufflepuff!_

Shortly followed by:

_Gloyne, James!_

_Hufflepuff!_

Unusually for him, Harold felt emotional. _Oh please don't let me be left out!_ he thought.

But he had to endure years of torment as _Goldstein, Anthony! . . . Goyle, Gregory! . . . Granger, Hermione! . . . Greengrass, Daphne!_ went through the mill.

Then at last his name was called.

With legs like jelly, he glided to the front.

He had scarcely got the Hat on before it spoke to him inside his head: "Calm down dear! Your two friends were just as jumpy!" before shouting aloud:

_Hufflepuff!_

Somehow he found his way to his friends. There was a tear in his eye, but fortunately, no-one noticed.

The rest of the ceremony was a bit blurry—literally and metaphorically—though Harold was vaguely surprised at the interest and stir created by _Potter, Harry! . . . Gryffindor!_

Potter was famous for doing something; Harold couldn't remember what.

Finally, with _Zabini, Blaise! . . . Slytherin!_ the Sorting was over, and food was on everyone's mind.

After the Feast, they were led by a female prefect to Hufflepuff which was housed in a basement. They were taught the pass-rhythm and password and led into the beautifully comfortable common room.

"Don't worry about it being a basement," said the prefect, "We're set into the cliff, so there's plenty of sunlight and lovely views."

Everyone was very friendly, and the eleven newcomers got to meet everyone in the house before they were sent to bed at eight forty-five.

There were six boys in the dormitory, all enchanted by the four-poster beds and the cosy decor. Harold and James took beds next to each other.

They were too excited to sleep, and too tired to talk intelligibly, so they had games of _He_ and _Murder_ before slumping into sleep that was happy and dreamless in the knowledge that this was a secure haven for six boys who liked each other.

The lessons next day were wonderful, as was going up on a broomstick for the first time.

They weren't even put off by the amount of homework they were given, the brighter boys helping out the slower ones.

It was soon apparent that Ernie Macmillan was easily the cleverest.

"You should have been in Ravenclaw, Ernie," said Justin, on Friday night, "You've got a ready mind, with plenty of wit and learning."

"And some good wrestling holds," said Ernie, engaging Justin in a half-Nelson.

This was a signal for the others to pile in, and soon there were six giggling and screaming boys rolling about the floor.

In activities such as this, Wayne Hopkins had the advantage: he might be rather dull-witted, but he was heavy and strong; and very gentle, even when restraining three boys and resisting a further two. He was a little like Adam Guest in physique and character.

The Sorting Hat had missed out on a good Hufflepuff adjective, thought Harold, as he lay in bed that night. Wayne was just, loyal, patient and true; he was also _gentle_. Harold felt a pride and emotional warmth that such a big-hearted boy was his friend; but then, the same applied to the other four boys.

Harold fell asleep wiggling his toes in happiness.

Saturday nights were devoted to romps all over the school, much to the annoyance of Mr Filch the caretaker.

On the second Saturday, there were further romps after they had been sent to bed (on the dot: the prefects wouldn't allow even a minute extra at weekends).

Red-faced and sweating, they were getting undressed for bed when Ernie announced: "Dorm meeting!"

They gathered in the centre of the room.

"Dear scholars," said Ernie, "In the long course of our Hogwarts careers, has anyone ever seen Wayne taking a shower?"

There was a silence, broken by Wayne saying: "I don't get very dirty."

"You're going to have a shower now," said Ernie.

"I'll have one tomorrow."

"You'll have one _now_. Strip off lads; Wayne might need a little help."

Within seconds, five naked boys were laughing and shouting as they undressed a resisting Wayne.

They succeeded at last and dragged their victim into the showers, where Ernie armed himself with a bar of soap, and endeavoured to clean up whatever parts of Wayne appeared within the six writhing bodies.

Over and over rolled the boys, getting more and more slippery with lather.

Their treble giggles rose to descant pitch, approaching a condition that might be described as screaming. But one scream was louder and more prolonged than the others.

Four of the boys stopped their struggles, and looked to see what was happening.

They saw Simon Fox rubbing himself against Wayne while holding him tightly.

Almost immediately, his arse stopped quivering, and his screams died away with a final _Oh . . . Oh . . . Oh_.

There was a moment when the only sound was of the rushing water.

Then Ernie said: "Simon, what was that all about?"

"He's shagging Wayne!" said Justin.

Simon turned round and said indignantly: "I'm not! I was fighting Wayne and came accidentally."

Simon had the horn. He was the best-looking boy in the dormitory, with dark good looks under bronze-blond hair. He was also the quietest boy in the dormitory—or had been until those screams.

"It looked a bit queer, Simon," said Ernie.

"Gay," said Harold.

"What?"

"Gay. It's not queer; it's gay."

"Gay or queer, we don't want it here!" said Justin, then giggled as he realised he'd created a poem.

"What do you mean you came accidentally?" asked Harold.

"You know; when you rub yourself like this," said Simon, pulling his foreskin backwards and forwards.

"Can you spunk up?" asked Justin.

"No, but it feels good."

"Why all that screaming?" asked Harold.

"Can't stop it."

"Well you'd better stop it," said Justin, "We don't want to suffer for your queerness—sorry, gayness."

The boys separated. Harold saw that Wayne and James had the horn. Wayne's was twice as big as James's—eight times volumetrically, he thought, remembering Miss Moody's lessons.

He got into bed and put the light out.

So Simon had been screaming with pleasure—presumably the same sort of pleasure that Tom Chatterton had felt.

It hadn't occurred to him that small boys could get that pleasure too.

With hope and anticipation, he started rubbing himself as Simon had demonstrated. He had a mildly agreeable sensation but the big pleasure never came, and he fell asleep five minutes into his rubbing.

Next morning, he woke with a slight feeling of disappointment. It was not just at his failure to achieve Simon's sort of pleasure, but because it was clear the magic world was just as down on gays as the Muggle world. He considered Willy and Howard, and felt a spasm of homesickness as he thought of Tom and the sons of the two dead gays, with their secret heritage.

But life was too good for any negative thoughts to last; and it was six carefree boys who walked through to the common room, hungry for the wonderful HJogwarts Sunday breakfast.

**4**

Life continued to be good for the rest of autumn. True, there was the odd blip with a troll, and the odd detention; but as against that, the work was good fun, and so was the play: the Muggle antics of Harold and James started a fad: all through September and October, exhausted owls were bringing in rugby balls and hockey sticks, sent by doting and bemused parents.

Despite the established fact that gay activity was not generally accepted at Hogwarts, Harold found that there seemed to be an underground which occasionally erupted into visibility.

He learned of the most blatant example one evening, when Ernie came to the table at dinner, obviously bursting with news, but unwilling to divulge it. He glanced meaningfully at the girls, so it must be something unfit for their ears.

In the dormitory later, he enlightened them:

"I say, you fellows! Do you know that little Gryffindor fourth-year—Pat Gillies?"

Some did; some didn't.

"Do you know what he did today?"

Of course they didn't know.

"He asked me to come into a toilet cubicle with him."

"I suppose you did," said Justin.

"Get Lost!—Oh I see you're joking. I tore him off a strip, I can tell you. I told him it was bad enough gaying it about all over the place, but to approach someone three years younger was totally not on. I gave him my views on the help he could obtain from Madam Pomfrey, Professor Sprout and no end of Ministry experts. I advised him to get a girlfriend, and if nothing else worked to leave Hogwarts."

"That's a bit harsh, Ernie," said Justin, "I know it's filthy habit, and I wouldn't allow it in our dorm, but really, it's a bit of a compliment that out of all the first-years, he picked you."

This mollified Ernie, but over the next few weeks, it became apparent that Gillies was systematically going after _all_ the first-years, getting a polite refusal from Justin, and a simulation of deafness from Harold and James.

Wayne and Simon reported nothing, and Harold could guess why; but he kept mum, mentally wishing them all the best, and hoping that Gillies had a good set of earplugs.

Harold observed that Gillies was having plenty of additional success: he saw Seamus Finnigan of Gryffindor slinking into a cubicle after Gillies; and he saw a reversal of rôles as Blaise Zabini of Slytherin dragged Gillies in after _him_.

There was no hanky-panky in the dormitory, but sometimes, Wayne or Simon spent the night somewhere else. Harold guessed that Nathan Slack, the swarthy fourth year, and Cedric Diggory, the pretty third-year had something to do with Wayne. They were big mates with Gillies, and also with Clements, a Ravenclaw third-year who was said to share a bed with Holoway, though to be fair, this was also said to be for nightmare-avoidance, and Harold, of all people, had no grounds for deprecating bed-sharing.

As for Simon, Harold guessed that he had a pretty little friend in Ravenclaw.

There was another piquant situation: Diggory was often hanging around with Cho Chang, a pretty Ravenclaw second-year. They were always looking into each other's eyes, and whispering. _Boyfriends_, though, was not the word: Diggory was effeminate enough (though, by God, could he handle a broomstick!) but Chang was practically a _girl_. If they did things together, who on earth did what?

But all the gay sex was all irrelevant: there was so much else to do.

Much of this involved a friendly rivalry with the Ravenclaw first-years—with whom Hufflepuff shared Defence Against the Dark Arts, with the useless Quirrell; History of Magic, with the useless Binns; Games, with the fabulous(ish) Madam Hooch; Potions, with the horrid Snape.

Ravenclaw were usually superior in brain-based matters, but Hufflepuff were cock house when it came to practical magic and games.

So there was a great deal of crowing from Ravenclaw when they thrashed Hufflepuff at hockey.

"We must get our revenge by beating them at something intellectual," said Ernie.

Harold was presented with a way of doing this a few days later: having a heavy cold, and being too lazy to go to the hospital wing for a potion, he decided to have a morning in bed, so making the acquaintances of some house-elves.

He found them enchanting and they took him down to the Elves' Pantry, which was next to the kitchen. As he sipped the strong cocoa that the elves had prepared for him, he met Madam Bellectus, the housekeeper.

She was enchanting too, in a different way: short, red-faced, round, and jolly. She laughed her head off when Harold told her about the idea that had just come to him.

"They've already got six," she said, "But we should be able to squeeze another one in."

Then Harold raced off to find James Gloyne, who was a hotshot wand-calligrapher.

After lunch he saw, as he'd hoped, Diggory and Chang in romantic colloquy.

"Pardon the interruption, Cedric," he said, "I wanted a quick word."

"Willingly, is today's quick word," smiled Cedric.

"It was actually a quick word with your friend."

"_You_, Harold?" said Cedric, then turned to his friend, saying: "Watch out, darling. This boy can crack _Quaffles_ with his thighs."

"He can certainly let hockey balls between them," laughed Cho.

"I just wanted to know if it was true that Cornelius Fudge's son was joining your lot."

"Not that I know of," said Cho, "But if he's anything like his dad, they'll have to create a new house: Birdbrain."

"Must be just a rumour," said Harold, "So the only new house we need is Lovebirdbrain. See you!"

That evening, he called a dorm meeting and explained his plan. They were all helpless with laughter.

"But how will we get the message in, Harold?" asked Ernie.

"I thought Simon might manage it."

"Simon?" said Ernie.

Simon Fox was blushing already.

"We're a friendly house," said Harold, "And we live and let live, but just this once, Simon, I hope you don't mind me mentioning that I think you spend the odd night in Ravenclaw."

Simon nodded, his face a cherry-red.

"Well, you can get up in the middle of the night—"

"I won't be able to stop myself going to sleep," interrupted Simon.

"You can use the Wizard Alarm," said Ernie, "I can teach it to you."

So a few days later the Ravenclaws came down one morning to find that their house notice-board boasted:

_RAVENCLAW SECOND YEARS_

_Please be aware that Guy Cornelius Ballseed will be joining your set from next Monday (November 18th)._

_Please make him feel at home in the Classroom, the Dormitory, and the Playing Field._

_Filius Flitwick (Professor)_

The news went all round the school.

Then Dame Rumour, under the control of the Hufflepuff first-years, started to embellish things, starting with the amazing news that the boy's father was Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.

It was said that the mother was Rita Skeeter, the star columnist for the _Daily Prophet_.

Fudge went up immediately in everyone's estimation: at forty, Rita was still a glamour-puss; twelve years ago, she must have been absolutely gorgeous.

It was further revealed that Rita had wanted Fudge to acknowledge his bastard, but he had refused, as it would prejudice his campaign to become Minister.

Rita had reluctantly agreed, but had insisted that the boy be brought up under a name which gave a not-too-cryptic clue to his origins—a guy who was the seed of Cornelius's balls.

The next bombshell was the reason for him missing the start of term: he had been relentlessly pursuing a Hungarian Horntail dragon across half of Europe.

Twelve years old!

And, on the way, he had impregnated three peasant-girls, stunned half the Romanian militia when they tried to refuse him entry, and outdrunk a party of Zaporozhian Cossacks.

When a seventh bed appeared in the dormitory on Friday the 15th, the excitement was tremendous.

People wanted merely to see the bed: parties of escorted girls; prefects; visitors from other houses.

On the Monday, the Ravenclaw students were on tenterhooks, and earned several detentions through daydreaming during classes.

By Monday evening, Guy had not turned up; by bedtime he had still not turned up.

On the Tuesday morning, everyone grilled the Ravenclaw second-years: _What's he like? . . . Where is he? . . . Is he still sleeping?_

The Ravenclaws were looking hangdog, and trying to change the subject.

Harold and his pals were choking with laughter. They knew that, courtesy of Simon, there had appeared on the Hero's pillow a note reading:

_TO: Carmichael, Chang, Bradley, Michael, Shattock,_

_I apologise for my late arrival._

_I looked at your sleeping faces and have to confess that, in my travels across five continents, I have never seen an uglier and more stupid-looking collection of louts._

_I confirmed my estimation of your intellects by examining your work. Pitiful._

_Farewell, I am going to Durmstrang._

_Guy Cornelius Ballseed_

The bed was removed, and the affair died down, apart from little pinpricks delivered by the Hufflepuffs; but flared up again, to a universal roar of laughter, when a week before the end of term there appeared on every house notice-board:

_SOLUTION TO ANAGRAM PUZZLE_

_GUY CORNELIUS BALLSEED = U GULLIBLE SECOND-YEARS_

_Winners: N/A_

_Losers: An ugly and stupid-looking collection of louts doing pitiful work._

"That'll teach them to put on side about a freak hockey accident," said Justin.

Of course, the Hufflepuffs made no secret of their responsibility, and on the last Saturday night of term, the games were more boisterous than usual, with Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff having an extra edge.

Harold was floored under a mass of boys playing Hogwarts Hippogriffs, when he felt someone feeling his privates.

Of course, boys often grabbed each other there, usually shouting out _Niffler!_ But this time, a hand had found its way _inside_ his underpants, and was tickling his bare penis—no, not tickling; _fondling_.

Harold wriggled and giggled until the hand was withdrawn as the scrum of boys broke up.

He saw that the offender was Peter Berg, an attractive Ravenclaw first-year.

"Top quality meat!" shouted Berg, as he made off for the Ravenclaw end.

As Harold lay in bed that night, he thought of the folly of human pride, and how irrelevant it was for him to be proud of appearing in Blenkinsop's list of fancies; and proud that the best-looking first-year should have picked Harold's prick to diddle.

He would have given no more thought to the incident, had not Berg fondled his arse as they passed in the corridor of the Hogwarts Express.

"Roll up! Roll up! Plenty for everyone!" shouted Berg.

Was Berg just being friendly, or was he gay?

The problem could be postponed: Harold had to return to the Muggle world.

**5**

Things could never be the same again.

Harold and his three friends had lived separate lives for sixteen weeks; and Harold would always have a magical life into which his friends would never be able to enter.

They would be meeting as strangers.

Bollocks!

Things were exactly the same.

They were immediately best friends again—even closer, as they had such a lot to tell each other.

Tom, Luke and Adam told about their new school: a giant comprehensive, where it was possible to get lost in the corridors (_You should try Hogwarts!_ thought Harold).

He told them about his hush-hush school, regretfully omitting the magic, and unregretfully omitting the gay stuff.

Apart from the honoured memories of Willy and Howard, and the contemptible memory of Blenkinsop, gayness was totally irrelevant to the four friends.

It was certainly _not_ gay when Luke grabbed Harold's balls while they were watching the New Year's Day rugby match.

On January the Fifth, at King's Cross, Harold and James Gloyne introduced their parents to each other, and to the boys' delight, the two families became firm friends.

Then the Witeney scene was forgotten, and Harold dived once more into the lively world of Hogwarts.

The pattern for Harold's next few years had been set: term-times and holidays spent with different groups of friends; the friendships becoming warmer and warmer as the years passed.

In his second year, Justin's friend, Johnny Rudd arrived and was sorted into Hufflepuff, so Harold saw a lot of him; and liked him.

Johnny was present one day in the spring term when a selection of juniors was knocking hockey balls about.

One too many balls got lost in the Forbidden Forest, so they went under the trees, swishing their hockey sticks.

They came upon a field with a herd of some form of small cattle.

"They're Bicorns," said Lee Jordan, a Gryffindor fourth-year, who was sports-mad, and, like so many wizards, good at every sport except Quidditch.

"What are they here for?" asked Harold.

"They're self-milking, so that goes to the Hogwarts kitchen," said Lee, "And the horns are used for potions."

"I reckon we could ride them," said Harold.

"You wouldn't dare," said Michael Weekes, a witty and likeable Ravenclaw first-year.

"I'd dare," said Harold, the question is: would you?"

"I will if you will."

Harold walked over to the friendliest-looking beast.

"Good girl," he said, as he climbed up.

Michael climbed up his own beast, and slapped her side to try and get her to move. The beast remained still.

"She probably wants calling," said James Gloyne, who was a country boy.

He stood in front of Harold's animal and called: "Chup, chup, chup, chup, chup, chup, come on, chup, chup, chup, chup."

The bicorn ambled towards James, and continued ambling as the boy walked backwards.

"I've seen people do that before," said, Johnny Rudd and used James's call to get Michael moving.

"We could have a race," said Harold.

"The field's not big enough," said Jonathan Neil, a Gryffindor first-year who was accompanied, as ever, by his friend Chris Harris.

"The front lawn is," said Harold.

"People would see."

"Not at six o'clock in the morning they wouldn't."

So a race was arranged: Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff on the following day.

At six o'clock, the jockeys, trainers and spectators arrived in the Bicorns' field. Things started well. The two Bicorns were quite happy to leave their field and walk along the forest path, but the wide open space of the front lawn spooked them, and they tried to throw their riders.

Michael Weeks hit the deck, amid regrettable laughter, but Harold kept a tight hold around the beast's neck.

Finding that it couldn't shift its burden by bucking, the beast set off at a canter, nearly knocking James over.

Harold managed to hold on, as the beast covered a wide arc before ineluctably aiming at the Hogwarts front door, which, alas, was wide open. It slowed down and walked into the castle at a sedate pace.

It had probably decided that it was entering a milking-parlour, thought Harold, as he pushed the beast's neck to the left, to try and steer it back out.

All he did was guide it to the basement stair, which it descended as calmly and cheerfully as a guest on one of these Muggle chat-shows.

Harold could see a term's-worth of detentions; then his heart gave a great leap: _Detention!_

He had been given a detention by Snape for an extremely minor incident—well, totting-up might have been involved—and was set on revenge. He had eavesdropped the password to the Potions classroom, but had not yet decided how it should be used. Now this darling creature had solved his problem.

He jumped down, and chup-chupped it through the corridors.

When they got to the classroom, he tapped the door with his wand, calling: _Professorial Professionalism!_

He had deduced that Snape was not a drinker.

The Bicorn entered the classroom willingly, saw the waste paper basket, and started self-milking into it. With a bit of luck there might be some poo in the offing too.

He closed the door behind him, chuckling to himself, but the chuckles soon stopped as he heard running footsteps.

Dished! Still, it had been a damn sporting effort.

But it was James Gloyne who came running round the corner.

"It's in Snape's classroom," stammered Harold, the laughter returning.

Soon the two boys were hugging each other, discovering that tears of laughter really did exist.

Then they quietened up, and started walking back to Slytherin, their arms around each others shoulders.

It was as well that they were quiet: someone else was walking the corridors.

They peeped round a corner and saw Simon Fox, in pyjamas and slippers, coming from the direction of Hufflepuff.

James opened his mouth to greet him, but Harold whispered: "Shush! Let's see what he's up to."

They followed Simon by sound rather than sight, as he led them up four flights of back staircases to the third floor. Then the noise stopped, and they turned a corner to see an empty corridor.

They listened at the door of the first classroom. All was silence, so Harold eased the door open and presented James and himself with an extraordinary sight: Simon and pretty-boy Peter Berg were standing facing each other, with their pyjama-bottoms down. They were hugging each other tightly, and their bums were quivering as they rubbed their pricks together.

Harold and James backed quietly, but Peter saw them and called cheerfully: "Come in boys, and shut the door!"

As Peter was speaking, Simon started making high-pitched squealy noises. He looked round and saw his two classmates, but didn't stop his movements; in fact they intensified, and so did his vocalisations, until they reached the intensity that they had heard the previous year.

At last everything stopped, and Simon drew away from Peter and pulled his pyjamas up.

"You won't say anything, will you?" he panted.

"What do you take us for, shitface?" said Harold.

"Two eligible boys!" said Peter, "Come over here and get your pants down!"

He was wiggling his prick at them.

"No thanks, Peter," said Harold, and he and James left quietly.

They walked to Hufflepuff, keeping a foot apart. James was probably conscious, like Harold, that a few minutes earlier, they had been hugging as tightly as Simon and Peter.

"I was thick," said Harold, "I thought Simon was on a prank; I never _dreamt_ of sex."

"No," said James, "Though it was bloody obvious if we'd stopped to think."

"They were certainly enjoying themselves, weren't they? Do you ever get the urge to do that?"

"No."

"Me neither. I've rubbed my prick no end. It's okay, but I don't get feelings like those two."

"Same here."

"We're missing out, aren't we?"

"Nothing could be as good as dumping a Bicorn on Snape."

"You're right," said Harold, though he wasn't entirely convinced.

At break, they buttonholed Simon, and got him to explain the Silence Charm, which had kept Harold and James from hearing the racket.

"And then, Peter spoke to us, which drew us into the Charm?" said Harold.

"That's it," said Simon.

"Please teach us; it'll be useful for pranks."

"It's quite easy; the Vocalisation is _Muffliato!_ . . ."

And the Charm did indeed prove a valuable addition to the pranksters' repertoire.

**6**

There were, however, fewer pranksters about in Harold's third year.

The reason was not Death, Famine, Plague or War; but Girls.

Ernie and Justin each acquired a girlfriend, and remained in that condition, though the identity of their girls changed with bewildering rapidity. Johnny Rudd made a sort of third partner, and the three boys seemed to have a pool of girls that they cycled through.

Harold and James shared the view that there was too much fun to be had in life to waste time with girls.

There was, for example, the great Snape time-bomb: boys paid a Galleon into a kitty. Selected at random, the first boy appeared in Potions with a red ribbon tied around his head. For the next lesson boy number two had an inch of extra ribbon hanging down; the one after, two inches and so on.

The winner of the pool would be the boy who first attracted a comment from Snape. This happened to be Stephen Buckell, who Snape did not like.

"Why are you trailing a yard of ribbon, Buckell?" barked Snape.

"Protection against Sirius Black, Sir."

There followed an incisive lecture on the foolishness of superstition, which Stephen tolerated happily, knowing that he was fifty-four Galleons richer.

If Harold wanted nothing to do with girls, the reverse did not apply: they were always smiling at him, saying hello, asking for help with their homework, and using a dozen other excuses to get to know him.

The hassle of giving girls the brush-off annoyed him less than the fact that the girls totally ignored his friend, James Gloyne, who, in Harold's view was much more of a catch.

The gayboys were much easier to deal with: after a rebuttal, they stayed away, unlike the girls, who reminded him of midges in summer.

Yes, the gayboys tended to keep to their own. In particular, there was a group of boys who always occupied the top of the Ravenclaw table. Everyone called this _Queer_ _Corner_, though in his heart, Harold couldn't believe that they were really gay: there were four hunky Quidditch stars, for goodness sake. Alright, there was Cho, but he wasn't so much gay, as a girl in a boy's body.

There was also a dark-haired second-year called Watts, who was not at all girlish, but who was so beautiful that it made Harold uncomfortable to look at him.

There was some bother with Sirius Black all year. This came to a climax near the end of the summer term, when it turned out that Black had at last been captured in Hogwarts grounds . . . only to escape again.

It was a Hogsmeade day, and various garbled versions of the story were going the rounds; but in all of them it appeared that Snape had been lying, boasting and betraying.

Harold and James were happily dawdling about the village when they saw Rocky Clements, star Quidditch player, and aficionado of rugby, hockey, football and boys' arseholes.

"Alright Rocky, mate?" he said, "Gonna miss Hoggie?"

"Yeah, but there's a new life waiting."

"Good luck to you!"

Harold and James shook hands with Rocky.

Then Harold had an idea, and called Rocky back.

"Hey Rocky," he said, "There were rumours that you arranged some shit-hot forged letters from the Ministry once?"

Rocky laughed and said: "Not all rumours are true, Harold."

"Well, I'd like to put one over on Snape, so if you happened to know how I could get a forged letter from the Ministry, I'd be grateful."

"A task after my own heart, mate. Wait here."

Rocky walked around the corner, and came back five minutes later with a big grin on his face.

"You're on," he said, "Just you."

Harold told James: "I'll see you in Zonko's."

"You're going to meet an old acquaintance," said Rocky, as they walked into one of the side-alleys.

"I don't know anyone in Hogsmeade," said Harold.

"How many forgers do you know?"

"Oh! Is it Tom Ch—"

"Ssh! He's called Tarquin now; and he told me how you paid for your Veritaserum."

"Purely commercial; and purely right hand," laughed Harold, "Don't you and Tarquin start a recruiting campaign."

"Wouldn't dream of it; though if you happen to feel—"

"The only thing I'm going to feel is Tarquin's prick."

Rocky led him to a pretty little cottage.

Tom Chatterton was disguised: his beautiful red hair had been replaced by a black crop.

"Wow, you've changed, big boy!" he said, shaking hands with Harold.

"Four years," said Harold, "I was only ten."

"You always were a dirty old man, Tarquin!" said Rocky.

"I was seventeen," laughed Tarquin, "A mere child."

Harold was then introduced to an older, but still elfin, man called Ernest.

"We'll get out of the way," said Rocky, taking Ernest upstairs.

"Two letters at the same cost as the Veritaserum," said Tarquin, after Harold had explained his requirements, "You wouldn't consider—"

"No I wouldn't!" laughed Tom.

Ten minutes later, he met James, and the two friends laughed over the letter they were just about to owl:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC_

_AUROR OFFICE_

_To Professor Severus Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Myself and a number of colleagues feel that you have been hard done by in the matter of the Order of Merlin after your brave and skilful actions in single handedly capturing Black, saving the lives of three children, and unmasking the werewolf Lupin._

_We have persuaded the Minister to reconsider and he has agreed that perhaps his reaction was "knee jerk"._

_I have suggested that he personally inspects Slytherin House to see for himself your splendid work in impresssing the old fashioned wizarding virtues upon the Younger Generation._

_I request you to have Slytherin House lined up on the Front Lawn of Hogwarts at 3.00 P.M. on Sunday, when Mr Fudge and I will arrive. It is possible that the Insignia may appear in the course of the afternoon._

_This is a matter for yourself and Slytherin House only, and the Minister is particularly keen that the Headmaster is not involved. In this, he has my wholehearted agreement._

_Yours_

_RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR, HEAD OF AUROR OFFICE_

Sunday came, and, by a quarter to three, Snape had cleared everyone off the front lawn, except the Slytherins, who were neatly lined up in their best clothes.

At three o'clock precisely, an owl arrived for Snape. Harold and James knew that he was reading:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC_

_AUROR OFFICE_

_To Professor Severus Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Oh dear! Looks like the Order of Merlin has gone west again._

_Myself and all right-thinking wizards consider your betrayal of Professor Lupin a vile act of spite._

_I beg you to keep your abnormally large nose out of other people's business, you ugly git. I would like to register my astonishment that an idiot like you ever became a Professor. I bid you good day, and advise you to wash your hair, slimeball._

_Yours_

_RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR, HEAD OF AUROR OFFICE_

At that moment, such a shower of magically-propelled Dungbombs as had never been seen at Hogwarts descended on the Slytherins.

Harold had to admire the power of Snape's self-image, as he walked away, covered in shit, but keeping his dignity in the midst of his fleeing charges.

For some reason, no moves were made to seek out the culprits, and Dumbledore never mentioned the incident.

At the end of the school year there was a nice break: the three Holmeses stayed for a week with the Gloynes.

Harold had been half hoping that he and James would have to share a bed; but they had separate bedrooms.

He felt a little lonely at night, but it was wonderful having James showing him round his childhood haunts.

Then it was back to Witeney Pass, and the exciting news that Tom Wellings had matured, and was able to shoot like Tom Chatterton—not that Harold had ever told his friends about his experiences in the Ganymede and the Hogsmeade cottage..

Tom was willing and able to demonstrate his new-found skill to his friends: behind hedges; on the top deck of buses; in shop doorways; but, best of all, in the twins' room.

On the second such occasion, Harold reached out and gave Tom a couple of strokes, to see if there was any negative reaction.

"Yeah, go on!" said Tom, and the brothers watched in fascination as Harold completed the job. Tom seemed to shoot more than usual, and his face looked extra-squashed, as he gasped and screwed it up.

"That was good, Harold," he said, "I pretended it was a girl doing it."

For some reason, Harold felt a tinge of disappointment at this statement.

Luke and Adam had to have a go as well, and, from that day on, the three of them took it in turns to wank Tom off, the other two wanking themselves, or each other, while they watched—though they didn't get the feelings yet.

The smell of Tom's spunk became as much a part of the four boys' lives as the feel of a rugby ball, or the sight and sound of the bus arriving in the village square, ready to take them to the city.

Their education was improved by the loan of a VHS tape showing men and women having sex in all sorts of ways. The entertainment value was low, however: once you'd seen it once, there was no attraction in seeing it again. The story lines were weak.

Tapes of comedy, adventure, science fiction, and sport were much more entertaining, though the romantic scenes were not the same once they had seen the porn film.

When the Guests went on holiday for a fortnight, Harold and Tom spent a lot of time alone together. Every other day, Harold stayed over at Tom's.

Tom had a big bed, so there was no need to top-and-tail. Every night they went to sleep without touching, and every morning Harold woke up with Tom pressing against him, with an arm holding him tightly. Harold put this down to subconscious affection rather than gayness, though on one occasion, Tom was clasping Harold's prick. Harold moved the hand away, and did not mention it to him when he woke, so as not to embarrass him.

There was also no gay connexion in the fact that Harold wanked Tom off two or three times a day, enjoying the feel of the stiff little prick in his hand, and happy at the ease with which he could give pleasure to his friend.

No sooner had the brothers returned, than the Holmeses were off on holiday, so Harold saw less of his friends than he would have liked.

It was a family holiday. In the absence of male cousins of his own age, Harold drifted into a friendship with a female cousin who taught him to kiss and made him feel her breasts on the last night.

He decided not even to _think_ about a girlfriend until his body had matured.

Then there was one more week with his friends, and it was back to school.

**7**

Hogwarts was having an international wizard tournament that year, much to the annoyance of the Quidditch coterie.

The students from the Beauxbatons school changed Harold's mind about girls: the French girls were dignified, sophisticated and smart; they were immaculately turned out, bringing words like _coiffure_ and _couture_ into the Hogwarts vocabulary.

Although they loyally supported Cedric, Harold's dormitory had a sweet spot for Fleur Delacour.

Also, it was hard to be totally against Harry Potter after his magnificent broomsmanship in fighting the terrifying Hungarian Horntail—though Harold could hear his dad's voice: _They should've got the house-elves to do it for them_.

Cedric too had become a Potter fan, and after the dragon challenge, wouldn't hear a word against him.

Cedric was also taking a firm stand for gayness: at the Christmas Day ball, he was compelled, as a competitor in the tournament, to attend with a partner. He had insisted on taking Cho. Harold wondered if they would dance together—real lovey-dovey dancing, as opposed to the Hags' Dance that allowed a few feet of space between partners.

Fourth-years were eligible to attend the Ball, but even had this not been so, Harold could have gone as the guest of any of the numerous girls in higher forms who invited him. Moreover, he could had taken a younger, otherwise ineligible, girl as _his_ guest.

Instead, he asked a wonderful Beauxbatons girl, receiving the reply that she had already accepted Robbie Files.

Ah well; at least it was Hufflepuff; and it would mean four more days at home for Harold.

"This term's like a pantomime," he said.

"Why don't we have one, then?" suggested James.

"Let's! We've got seven weeks to write and organise it.

There was a terrific response. The girls especially fancied something to bring out their artistic side.

At first it was just the ten fourth-years; then the other years wanted to get involved; then the other houses (with the usual suspects abstaining). They had to hold auditions, and Harold had to apply to use the Great Hall.

"An excellent idea," said Dumbledore, "I'm sure I and the staff will enjoy it immensely."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sir," said Harold, "The staff—and you, come to that—will be thoroughly sent up."

"Good for our souls," said the Headmaster.

So it was that, on the last night of term, most of the school and all of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang contingent witnessed:

King Minstrey (In Fudge's trademark green bowler hat) tells his chamberlain (Proffit, dressed in sheets of newspaper) to find brides for his sons, Prince Ipples and Cred.

Proffit searches throughout the kingdom and turns up in the house of Baron Bumblebore (wearing a robe emblazoned with _Did you hear the one _about) and his three ugly daughters, Crummier, Flurrier, and Chummier. He dishes out tickets to the Yule Ball, where the Princes will choose their brides.

Crumbier, always flying on a broomstick, says _So!_—her entire vocabulary.

Flurrier spends the entire play asking if anyone knows the English translation of _Chic_.

Chummier doesn't want to be a bride: she wants _Aladdin_.

In the kitchen, Mrs Snap, the cook, stirs a bubbling cauldron.

The Baron's beautiful daughter, Gryffindella, her scar prominent on her forehead, continually moans: _How I wish I could go to the Ball_ to which Mrs Snap always responds either: _Five points from Droopydrawer!_ or: _Detention, rotter!_

At this point, Mother Parsnip appears out of the fire, and transforms a sprout into an ebony carriage.

An angry Mother Superior comes out the fire, declaring that Transformations are her responsibility. She changes some mice into ponies and some Mokes into carriage attendants.

The huge Master Ruby-eyes appears saying: _Whatyer doin' ter my Mokes!_

A pirate with a wooden leg, an eye-patch, and a parrot on his shoulder comes in to complain about the Dark Cart.

As the four newcomers quarrel with each other, Baron Charming enters and casts a Cheering Charm on the company.

They start laughing, singing and dancing while Gryffindella enters the carriage, showing a dragon-tail protruding from the rear of her dress, and is driven off by someone looking remarkably like Stan Shunpike.

Mrs Snap alone has been unaffected by the Charm, and remains as grumpy as ever, her cries having been learned by the Parrott.

The Act ends with a glimpse of the dancing pirate's rear: he has a rolling, mad eye situated in each bumcheek; and Mrs Snap and the parrot are screaming: _Detention! . . . Detention! . . . Detention!_

The scene shifts to the Palace ballroom.

Doctor Castoff is wooing the beautiful Crummier by repeatedly bowing and saying: _Ach!_ to which Crummier always responds with _So!_ They dance, Crummier remaining on her broomstick.

The gigantic Monsieur Paxeen roars _Ces Anglaises!_ at the beautiful Flurrier. _Ces Brittaniques!_ growls Mother Superior. _Ce qui est l'anglais de chic?_ says Flurrier, as she dances off with Monsieur Paxeen.

The glamorous Gryffindella appears, and is immediately approached by a small monkey looking like Danny Jorrocks.

_Be mine!_ says the monkey, but Gryffindella, her _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badge flashing, says _I want my Horntail_.

_It's behind you!_ say some . . . _Oh no it isn't!_

The two Buttons appear, and indulge in some byplay with the audience, including:

_What a lovely audience, aren't they Button?_

_Yes, Button, except for one Twister._

_Oh is he here?_

_Yes._

_He's probably going to give us another detention._

_Oi! Mr Twist! Are you there?_

Gordon Twist, the new Gryffindor prefect, who is in on the joke, and had indeed once given Fred and George detentions, rises to his feet in the middle of the audience.

_Mr Button presents his compliments to Mr Twist, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business._

_Mr Button agrees with Mr Button, and would like to add that Mr Twist is an ugly git._

_Mr Button would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a Prefect._

_Mr Button bids Mr Twist good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball._

Gordon screams, in tones more reminiscent of Snape than Mrs Snap _Detention! . . . Detention! . . . Detention!_

Back at the Ball, the Baron enters with his sister, the Contessa Comfy, who is dressed in a nursing uniform. She sings a song with the chorus:

_If you gotta notion_

_For a calming potion,_

_I can deal with traumatry_

_In classroom or in dormitory._

_If your bones are busted,_

_There's one who can be trusted._

_I can splash the lotion_

_With minimal commotion,_

_For the Countess of Comfy is going to make you comfy, comfy, comfy._

Doctor Castoff is rivalled in his pursuit of Crummier by one Herman Stranger; and a handsome man called Dodger Ravy joins Monsieur Paxeen in chasing after Flurrier. Gryffinella's admirers include the monkey and Proffit.

The various courtships, songs, jokes, and dancing become frenetic under the influence of potions dished out by the Contessa.

Then the clock strikes midnight, and Gryffindella flees, her dragon-tail falling off in the process.

The next morning, everyone is assembled at the Baron's.

Proffit arrives with the dragon-tail, looking for a fit.

Then with enormous fuss and fanfare, His Majesty arrives.

_Where are my sons, Proffit?_

_I fear you have lost your Prince Ipples and there is no sign of your Cred, Your Majesty._

_Good, good. Carry on then._

And with enormous fuss and fanfare, His Majesty departs.

In the absence of the princes, Proffit, having correctly identified the grimy Gryffindella as the possessor of the tail, proposes marriage:

_You will learn that I command a_

_Regiment of lies and slander,_

_Libel and insinuation:_

_Vital for the Circulation._

Before Gryffindella can answer, the door bursts open, and Aladdin arrives.

_Sorry I'm late _he says,_ Let's begin the story of Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp!_

_Naff off! _shouts Gryffindella,_ It's __**my**__ panto!_

_You naff off Gryffindella! _shouts Chummier,_ I've got Aladdin, and he won't even let you into his circle!_

The two sisters fight, joined by their other sisters.

Aladdin leads the Company in the closing chorus, which begins:

_Fighting in itself is bad,_

_The thing that makes it really mad_

_Is having four instead of three;_

_Lord, what fools these witches be!_

and finishes:

_Before the human species ends,_

_There's much to do to make amends;_

_Human nature sometimes tends_

_To nasty thoughts, so let's be friends._

Everyone embraces under a magically-unfurled banner combining the standards of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang and Hogwarts.

The play was cast with all the female parts played by males, and vice versa; the sole exceptions being Button & Button servants to the Baron, played by the Weasley twins.

The only Slytherin member of the cast was Adrian Pucey, who, darkly handsome and a brilliant broomsman like Viktor Krum, was an ideal choice for Crummier.

Nearly everyone took it well, though Karkaroff had to have it explained that this was the British Sense of Humour; and Fleur was heard to tell Madame that it was all a tease, as everyone knew that there was no English word for _Chic_.

The only one who was seriously miffed was Snape, who rose to leave a couple of times, and was pulled down by Hagrid, who was roaring with laughter throughout the show.

The Hogwarts Express was half empty. Harold shared a compartment with James and Wayne. The other three were going to the Yule Ball—Ernie and Justin totally as expected; and Simon as a half-expected consequence of his increasing straightness.

There were also five giggling girls, who, once they had established that Harold was not going to flirt with them, joined in the jolly fun.

It was a wonderful family Christmas, the only drawback being that Harold's contacts with Tom, Luke and Adam were limited to one afternoon.

It was a good afternoon, though: the brothers had developed, and Harold was allowed the privilege of wanking them off.

They had a good crack about their respective school terms; then there was time for seconds before Harold had to leave. It was clear that Harold was privileged in being allowed six on the trot: a strict rota normally applied.

At home, there was yet another aunt and uncle come a-visiting.

"My, you _have_ got sticky hands!" said Auntie.

**7**

From the new year on, Harold and James found their workload heavier. They were taking a full set of O.W.L.'s, and the teachers piled on the homework, frequently reminding the students that there were only five . . . four . . . three terms left.

There was still _some_ time for games and frolics, and they had a lot of fun making Ernie Macmillan up as Sirius Black, the mass murderer, and sending him about the school.

A very clever first-year called Jimmy Peakes devised a new variant of rugby, and this became a craze which lasted until the ground was too hard.

Harold started having weird dreams which involved him being naked with other girls and boys—boys predominated, which he put down to not knowing much about girls' bodies—the dreams had nothing to do with sex, anyway.

Sex for Harold meant rubbing his prick in the desperate hope that he would start getting the feelings which so excited lucky Simon Fox. He began to wonder if he was abnormal, and destined to pass his life as a hermaphrodite.

Then, one evening in the shower, it happened: Harold had his first orgasm. Hair and spunk followed in the next few weeks, and Harold had become a man. . . .

. . . This was just before the catastrophe.

It was hard to believe that Cedric was dead. Good, kind, loyal, life-affirming Cedric.

He should have lived for years, every day filled with laughter and new hope to be transmitted to all those around.

Harold was among the crowd watching the maze when Potter materialised with Cedric in his arms.

He followed the rest of the crowd in his emotions: curiosity leading to concern; a numbing shock when he realised that Cedric was dead; an overwhelming grief.

He heard James Gloyne sobbing at his side and realised that he himself had been wailing like a buzzard for some time.

The boys turned to each other, and hugged.

The night had turned chilly, as if to mark the coldness that filled their hearts. Harold was grateful for the physical warmth from James's body; and for the spiritual warmth that dulled the shock and anguish.

The two boys were augmented into a four-way hug as Justin and Johnny abandoned their girlfriends.

All over the Quidditch stadium and the front lawn, little knots of students were hugging, while others made their way dejectedly towards the Castle. Eventually, Harold and his friends followed.

They got into their pyjamas quietly, and went straight to bed. It was strange, Harold thought the next day, that they had said nothing to each other: most nights they chattered away before turning in; now, when there really _was_ something to talk about, their tongues were locked.

He was awoken in the night by a strange twittering noise. It was coming from Wayne Hopkins' bed.

Harold mentally kicked himself; he felt as if the world had disintegrated; how much more must Wayne be feeling? Wayne had probably _shagged_ Cedric; been shagged by him. Even now, with Cedric's corpse growing colder by the second, Wayne's prick might be smeared with Cedric-poo, and his arsehole harbouring Cedric-semen.

With some force of will, Harold got out of his bed, padded over to Wayne's, and got in.

For the third time in his life he embraced a boy. Wayne hugged him back, still weeping.

As much to stop the noises as to answer a compassionate urge, he kissed Wayne on the lips, and settled into a comfortable position for sleeping.

Wayne's comfortable position involved one hand unashamedly holding Harold's backside. At first, Harold was a bit disconcerted: Wayne was a dedicated and industrious homosexual, and this seemed awfully like a sexual advance. But then Harold remembered that Johnny Rudd had also squeezed his bottom earlier that evening, and no-one could suspect Johnny of being gay.

No, it was just an innocent form of male bonding, and Harold liked it a lot: it seemed to say: _We are so close that only the most intimate physical contact (but obviously without sexual undercurrents), can express our friendship_.

Likewise, he didn't detect any whiff of sexuality when he woke up in the morning with the elephant's trunk that Wayne sported between his legs pressing against him.

He slipped out of bed and went for a shower. On the way there, he saw that James had opened his eyes. He sat on his bed and said: "Alright?"

"Alright," said James, "Awful isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Harold; then tears came again, and he sobbed: "Thank God it wasn't you."

He leant over and_ kissed James on the lips_.

Both boys blushed, and Harold left quickly for the shower.

What was he thinking of? What would James think? Perhaps that Harold was gay. He was behaving like a gay, going round kissing and hugging boys. And James must have noticed that Harold had the horn.

He bashed the Basilisk in the shower, thinking about Morag McDougal, though the image of Johnny Rudd flashed into his mind; but only for an instant; no he wasn't gay, and no-one who knew him could suspect that he was.

The last days of term were utterly weird: the students were without the spirit for the usual end-of-term fun and games, and the teachers were far less demanding than usual.

At the closing Feast, Dumbledore said some words about Cedric that had most people crying. Then he shocked everyone by telling them that it was Voldemort who had killed Cedric. Finally he talked about brave Harry Potter, who had defeated Voldemort and rescued Cedric's body.

Harold had shared lessons with Harry for four years, and he had shown no sign of being a great wizard—a great Seeker, maybe, but otherwise an ordinary boy, distinguished only by periods of introspection.

It just showed: you can't judge by appearances. Perhaps Malfoy, Harry's great enemy, was a secret volunteer for charities supporting widow and orphans.

Despite the tragedy, Harold might have expected a summer of happiness with his Muggle friends. He had been thinking of inviting James for a visit, but Cedric's death had made him want a break from everything to do with Hogwarts.

As it turned out, holidays and sickness in the family limited his contacts with Tom Wellings and the Guest brothers to a few days in the middle of the holidays.

They had a wonderful time: practising rugby, as in the old days—all three Muggles were _really_ good now; romping around Kennesmaw; having four-way wanks; hanging round the village square, flirting with the girls.

The times that Harold loved the best were when they helped him catch up on Muggle music. ("Doesn't your school even allow you to watch _Top of the Pops_?" asked Tom).

The boys lounged in the Guests' room, Luke and Tom on Luke's bed, and Adam and Harold on Adam's. Sometimes they got up and danced, but always returned to the same beds.

Sometimes Luke and Tom leaned together, with Tom's arm around Luke's shoulders. It was sweet, and it seemed quite natural for Harold to hold Adam in the same way, though soon it became apparent that it was more comfortable for Harold to lean against Adam's shoulder, while Adam flung his arm about Harold.

Adam had grown into a great fifteen-year-old lump. When Harold stayed over for the night, there was scarcely room for the two of them in the bed, and they had to hold each other tightly to stop themselves falling out.

Harold was reminded of his night with Wayne, but without any uneasy suspicions about sex—which was just as well, because Adam stuck his free hand inside Harold's underpants, and cradled his willy all night.

Harold did the same for Adam; it felt wonderful: an innocent expression of boyish friendship.

It was still innocent when they woke up in the morning with stiff, sticky pricks, and wanked each other off. It was Harold's best orgasm yet, and he squeaked.

This single night was a one-off: Harold had to return to Hogwarts.

As always, his loyalties were divided; but this year it was worse: he would be returning to a Hogwarts full of friends, but without Cedric, and cursed with the burden of O.W.L.'s.

**8**

There was no easy lead-in to the academic year: after a mere three days of term, the fifth-years had acquired tons and tons of reading, memorising, and essays to do. The teachers were pressing them hard, apart from a new one called Umbridge, who simply took them gently through the textbook.

On the first Saturday night, Harold and James Gloyne were more than ready for some hell-raising fun. In the course of the action, Harold barged into a Gryffindor fourth-year girl called Bethany Cook.

They sat down breathless in a corner, and talked . . . and talked.

Suddenly, Harold had acquired a girlfriend.

He had known Bethany for years through several different sporty connections. She was good-looking, clever, and excellent fun; she was quite like her best friend, Ginny Weasley, though not as skilled at Quidditch, and without Ginny's fiery, slightly bitchy, personality; a plus was that she had a bigger bosom than Ginny.

As they were in different years and different houses, Harold didn't have to see _too_ much of Bethany. They chatted at most breaks and lunchtimes, and often did their homework together in the library, sometimes with a more-than-welcome James as a gooseberry. Bethany offered to find James a girlfriend, but he didn't seem to be interested.

Once a week, at least, Harold and Bethany had a snogging-session. Harold enjoyed the sensuous play of the two mouths and the pressure of Bethany's squishy breasts against him. He always got the horn, and his prick drooled, but he couldn't imagine himself ever wanting to stick it inside her.

Harold's sex-life was, he imagined, the same as that of the other members of the dormitory, with the exception of Wayne Hopkins: regular masturbation.

Harold's body had matured considerably in the four months since he had started shooting. He was like Tom Wellings in having a high sex-urge. He always had a wank with his morning shower, and in his bed at night; sometimes he nipped into a lavatory cubicle during the day and spunked into the pan. He sometimes thought of Bethany, but quite often of other girls. She'd never know he was being unfaithful to her.

As for Wayne, he had been gay since his first year, and now gays had really come into their own: boys were openly acknowledging their boyfriends, sometimes walking hand-in-hand, but always respecting other people's sensibilities by refraining from public snogging or groping; Derek Rath announced himself as Hufflepuff Gay Champion, ready to offer advice and assistance; and little Danny Jorrocks had formed a gay group for first-years.

Harold sometimes thought of the Guest brothers' fathers: they probably had to go through Hell before finding each other. The Hogwarts gays were living in Heaven.

"Gays are lucky," he told James, as they sat in the common room one Sunday morning, "They can actually have _real_ sex."

Hogwarts was immersed in the PATME (Protection Against Too Much Enjoyment) Alarm, which sounded if a boy and girl became too intimate.

"It's funny isn't it?" said James, "You've got a girlfriend, and I haven't, but we're both reduced to wanking."

"Yeah; not that it's bad."

"No; how often do you wank, Harold?"

"Just now and then, in the shower." Harold didn't want to his friend to think him sex-mad.

"Some of the dorms have communal wanks."

"More fool them, then: life's complicated enough."

"Yeah."

"I must admit though: me and my Muggle friends sometimes wank off together."

"What's it like?"

"Good fun. It's more to do with friendship than sex, though. I think you'd have to be gay to really feel the benefit."

"Hogwarts has gone gay-mad this year."

"Good luck to them. They should go for it while they can: there'll be one of Umbridge's educational decrees about it soon."

"Gideon's certainly going for it," laughed James, "He was straight into the bogs with Owen Cadwallader after breakfast. It's weird. isn't it: I mean Owen's five years older."

Harold also laughed: "Only one-way weird: even straight boys like me can see that Gideon's really cute, even though he's a half-caste. It's a good year for cute first-years: Paul Smith and Alexander Bell in Gryffindor; Brian Hudson in Slytherin; and or course Tintin, the prettiest girl in the school. None of our lot were cute."

"_You_ were cute," said James.

"That shows how bad your taste is"

"You're right: my cutest boy ever was Martin Murch."

Both boys laughed: Martin may have been cute once, but now, as a third year, he was a big, dough-faced, spotty, lumbering youth, mad on sports, and good at them all. For this reason, he was big mates with Harold.

"Peter Berg's still cute at sixteen," said Harold, " Do you remember three years ago? It's funny: Peter and Gideon Buchanan, the cutest second-year and the cutest first-year got together in the first week of term, and split up straightaway."

"Ephraim Chambers said Peter had revolting habits," said James.

"I wonder how he upset Gideon; must've done something. Everyone's sex-life is different; talking of which, I must go and meet Bethany," said Harold.

"Enjoy."

Harold _did_ enjoy: Bethany and her best friend, Ginny, helped Harold and Michael Corner, Ginny's boyfriend, with their O.W.L. work.

With such support from Bethany and James—his girlfriend and his best friend—Harold started to feel quietly confident about the exams, and he went home for Christmas in a happy mood.

That year, there were fewer relatives about, and Harold lost no time in going round to the Guests. There was nobody in, but at the Wellings, Tom was there to greet him, literally with open arms.

As they hugged, with Tom's little brother and sister gaping at them, Harold felt an upwelling of happiness. He could understand how Rocky Clements, a Ravenclaw sportsman, two years his senior, had preferred the Muggle world: you weren't surrounded by people speculating whether you were gay every time you cuddled anyone.

"I'm looking down on you, Tom," he said.

"Enjoy it while you can," smiled Tom, "I expect to get some serious growing done in nineteen ninety-six."

They took a rugger ball out, and threw and kicked for a while.

Then they went indoors, compared bodies, and had a sociable wank.

"Looks like you've already done a bit of serious growing," said Harold.

"It's a beauty, isn't it; I just need my balls to grow to scale."

On the day after Boxing Day, Harold went with his parents to the Wellings, where the three families enjoyed indoor and outdoor games.

After supper, the four boys went to the Guests for the night.

"We've got another game," said Tom, "Are you game for the game?"

"I'll play anything you're playing," said Harold.

"Right; it's called Cherry Rummy," said Tom.

The brothers laid out a teaspoon, an egg-cup, a half-pint tumbler, and a bottle of cherryade.

Then a pack of cards was produced, and they played an ordinary game of seven-card rummy.

Adam was first out. He filled the teaspoon with spit.

The three losers played another game.

This time, Tom had to fill the egg-cup with piss.

It was between Harold and Luke, and Harold won.

"Harold please wank off into the glass," said Tom.

Harold obliged, though he was overtaken by a fit of the giggles. He had a wild surmise, and he couldn't believe they would go through with it.

But as soon as he had spurted plentifully into the tumbler, the unfortunate Luke _had_ to go through with it: he emptied the egg-cup onto the spunk, topped up with cherryade, and used the spoon to swirl the mixture into a sudsy mass.

Then he drank it all down, burped and said: "It's frothy man."

The boys were laughing hysterically.

"Good game" gasped Harold, "I bet you got it from the Club."

"They've got a game where you spit in someone's pint," said Tom, "But that's just milk and water."

This set them off again.

Luke went to the bathroom to clean the equipment.

He came back and laid it out again.

"Don't worry, Harold," laughed Tom, "No-one leaves this game with an empty stomach!"

Luke executed a solo run, filling the spoon, cup and glass in order, and presenting a fresh cocktail to the others.

Two marks were placed on the glass, and they drank a third each—again with much laughter.

When they finally went to bed, Adam and Tom shared. Harold guessed that they would empty each other's balls; but that was their business: his business was snuggling against Luke, and holding his legs tightly—no; shifting down a little, and holding his _arse_ tightly.

What a perfect world!

In the morning, he lay in the warm bed thinking about the night before. An outsider would have thought it weird, but to Harold it was just another way of expressing friendship. Perhaps it was a sort of Muggle medicine: something that worked as a Friendship Potion.

Yes, Muggles had a lot to teach wizards about friendship. He couldn't think of anything the other way round: Hogwarts boys seemed to go straight into heavy gay stuff . . . there was one thing, though: he'd overheard some boys mention that Rocky Clements was into toe-sucking.

Rocky was gay, but since he had recourse to much higher-profile activities, toe-sucking was presumably about friendship, not sex.

Emboldened by this thought, he took Luke's foot into his mouth. It was fluffy, but life isn't all cakes and ale.

The other three laughed uproariously, but Adam was over in a flash, sucking Harold's toes with audible amusement and enjoyment.

It was at that moment that Harold decided to open up his life to his friends.

"Fancy a day in London?" he asked at breakfast.

Once they had established that they had enough money, they all agreed. They had been to London twice before, and had a wonderful time: the street-life alone provides first-rate entertainment for any intelligent boy.

On the train—they lived only fifty miles from London—Harold addressed his friends: "I've kept your secret for four years. Now I'm going to tell you my secret, and you must promise to keep it for four and forty years."

They promised.

"I've got a fantasy," he continued, "It's that I'm a wizard; Mum's a witch; Dad's a wizard; and I go to a wizard school."

"Having a fantasy isn't very secret," said Tom.

"Shut up!" said the brothers.

Harold spent the rest of the journey telling his friends about the wizarding world.

"That's fabulous!" said Luke, "If you write it down, it'll be a best-seller."

"And we can all travel First Class," said Tom.

"It's true, isn't it?" said Adam, "I _know_ it's true. I always knew you were special. Ever since that day we sat next to each other in the bath."

"Oh Adam!" said Luke, "It's only a story."

"Did you bring your magic wand, Harold?" asked Adam.

"Well, I brought this stick with me," said Harold, withdrawing his wand from its secret pocket down the side of his coat.

"Do some magic spells!" said Adam.

"He's not allowed to until he's seventeen," said Luke.

"Only in Muggle areas," said Adam, "He can do them in Diagon Alley. Is that where you're taking us, Harold?"

"I'm taking you to the place where it is in my fantasy," said Harold.

It was like Father Christmas, thought Harold: Adam believed; Luke wanted to believe; and Tom deemed it a fairy story.

Even Tom must have had his doubts tested when he saw the Leaky Cauldron, which had been invisible until it had been pointed out; and the clientèle inside.

"They're all in fancy dress." said Luke, when they'd reached the yard outside.

"No, _we're_ in fancy dress," said Harold.

Then came the moment of truth: he tapped the brick with his wand three times, and still squeaking with delight and amazement, his friends entered Diagon Alley.

They went round nearly every shop in the Alley; and in between, Harold was having to levitate things or move them around. He had to be discreet, as public magic purely for show was viewed as somewhat tasteless.

He didn't allow them to buy things—not because of the bother of changing money, but because _anything_ removed into the Muggle world was a security risk.

They all had a go with Harold's wand, but none of them could produce a single spark.

Unsurprisingly, they talked about nothing else but the magic world on the train home.

That evening, Tom, in thoughtful mode, asked Harold: "Why today? Why show us your magic today?"

"I suppose it was something to do with Cherry Rummy," said Luke.

"Yeah. I felt it was more than a daft rugby game; it was . . ." said Harold.

"Like we were together, Harold," said Tom.

"Yeah."

"Best day ever when we met you," said Luke.

"Today was the best day," said Adam.

"Let's be really together," said Tom, "All for one; one for all, like the musketeers."

So they had one last game of Cherry Rummy—but without the Rummy.

A pint glass was used, and all four boys contributed. But Tom insisted on one addition: each of them pricked his finger and added a drop of his blood. They shared the drink and went to sleep feeling that they'd done something important and good.

Next morning Adam asked: "Can we get to visit Hogwarts, Harold?"

"Impossible," said Harold, "It's protected from Muggles except for Family Days. You won't be able to _see_ it, let alone cross the threshold"

"Shame."

"Wait a minute," said Harold, and paused for thought, "Family Days . . . I don't think they've had one for years, but there must be a Charm to allow temporary Muggle access."

"Even if you could wangle a quick in-and-out for one of us—Adam, of course—that would be a good laugh," said Tom.

"I'll try," said Harold, "When's your half-term holiday?"

Luke shuffled through the mess of papers, and found the school calendar.

"A week starting on Valentine's Day," he laughed, "You'll be tied up with your Bethany."

"Will I buggery!" said Harold, "I'll do my best to get Adam in, and if I can't I'll come and visit you here. Adam, get your mum and dad's permission to spend a day and a night at school. Hint that the Secret Service might be recruiting and they'll be keen enough."

There was a rousing, if untuneful, run-through the James Bond theme; then Tom and Harold left: O-levels beckoned as well as O.W.L.'s.

**9**

Back at Hogwarts, it was work, work, work.

But there was this one last jape to be fitted in. All the other fifth-years agreed that the _Smuggle a Muggle_ project, as it was called, would be a marvellous coup, if it could be brought off.

Harold considered Dumbledore and all the other teachers. There was no doubt that Umbridge was the weakest link.

He owled Tom Chatterton—no, Tarquin—to arrange a visit.

Once more he used his right hand on Tarquin. This time, he threw in a free one for Ernest, who despite being as effeminate as Cho or Tintin, was possessed of a prick that squirted undoubtedly masculine spunk on the carpet. Harold managed to dodge attempted kisses from each man.

With his usual sticky hand, he went to the Post Office and owled:

_MINISTRY OF MAGIC_

_DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION_

_To High Inquisitor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Dolores,_

_I am no doubt acting against protocol in writing on this matter to you rather than Dumbledore, but I foresee the posts of Headmistress and High Inquisitor being merged in the very near future._

_You will be aware of the pureblood HAROLD HOLMES, fifth year student in Hufflepuff House. He has a half-brother, ADAM GUEST, of impeccable bloodline, but alas a Squib—it happens even in the best families._

_Mr and Mrs Holmes, who incidentally have expressed to the Minister their admiration for your inquisitorial aims and methods, have naturally some sentimental attachment for the boy and have asked me to grant his greatest wish, namely that he visit Hogwarts before being sent to enter the Muggle world. _

_For the forthcoming Hogsmeade weekend (14th/15th Feb.) I would be grateful if you would allow said ADAM GUEST temporary access to Hogwarts; and said HAROLD HOLMES temporary access to the Floo network at Hogsmeade._

_I would ask you to keep this matter confidential. We receive a large number of requests of this or similar nature and have no wish to set a precedent._

_Yours with Respects,_

_HUMPHREY TOPPING, HEAD OF DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION_

_Approved_

_CORNELIUS FUDGE, MINISTER FOR MAGIC_

_Noted for Security _

_RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR, HEAD OF AUROR OFFFICE_

In consultation with Tarquin, Harold had decided that if Umbridge wasn't already on Christian-name terms with her boss, the use of _Dolores_ would give her an extra frisson of pleasure.

Then it was back to work, work, work—so much so that the time to Valentine's Day went in a flash.

Bethany had been sporting in giving Harold an _exeat_, as it was for such a good cause. However, in compensation, she had decreed a long Friday-night session.

But _all_ girls were forgotten on the great day.

A-tremble with excitement, Harold walked to Hogsmeade Post Office and threw a pinch of Floo powder onto the fire.

He walked in and called: _Kennesmaw!_

Yes! Good old bigoted, arrogant, selfish Dolores! Fireplaces—dozens and dozens—flashed past him. It was the longest Floo journey he had ever taken, and he emerged dizzy and slightly nauseous—and happy.

He lost no time in catching the bus to Witeney Pass, where he expected a flood of parental questions and injunctions, but Mr and Mrs Guest seemed quite too awestruck to offer anything but the blandest good wishes. No doubt the James Bond theme was playing inside their heads.

They stopped off on the way to the bus stop to pick up Tom, who was going to spend a day in the city with Luke.

At the Floo point they said their goodbyes, Harold knowing that as soon as he and Adam crossed the Floo Point threshold, the two Muggle watchers would suddenly have their attention diverted, and then realise that the others had gone.

He tried Adam out with a short journey (_Don't hold me as tight as that, Adam_); then a longer journey, as far as Nottingham.

Adam felt up to it, so they went all the way, emerging with Adam fine, and Harold not quite the thing. Afterwards, they worked out that this was because Adam had often been on big swings and roundabouts in Muggle Theme Parks.

After Adam had donned one of Wayne's old robes, the two boys met up with James, and toured the whole of Hogsmeade, ending up in the Three Broomsticks to dry off and shelter when the rain got heavier.

It was crowded, but they found a table. Harold treated Adam to a wizard meal. He didn't think much of pumpkin juice or Butterbeer, but he liked the food.

Malfoy was at the next table.

"Who's your friend, Holmes?" he asked.

"Wilson," said Harold, "Son of the New Zealand Minister for Magic. Come over to do his O.W.L.'s."

"Sounds a bit foreign."

"He's a pureblood both sides," said Harold, knowing Malfoy's obsession, "N generations."

"Good for you, Wilson," said Malfoy, "We need a few more like you."

"Yeah, purebloods rule, okay?" said Adam, quickwittedly.

They walked to the Castle, and Adam was given a grand tour.

Then they called at Gryffindor and asked for Bethany.

She came to the door, and Harold introduced Adam.

"Pleased to meet you, Adam," she said, holding out her hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Bethany," said Adam, holding out his hand, but swerving upwards to give her left tit a squeeze.

This was a common gambit at Adam's Muggle school, but caused consternation here: Harold, James and Bethany stuck their fingers in their ears, expecting PATME to summon prefects, teachers, learning support assistants, Filch, Peeves, and most of the students.

But there was nothing: "It must be because he's a Muggle," said Bethany.

At dinner, Ernie, Wayne, Simon and Justin got to know Adam better.

"It was six of us from Day One," said Ernie, "And it's like that with you. Can't you stay longer or visit more often?"

"Adam's got exams just like us," said Harold.

"Shame. But you're perfect for our Saturday night games: they don't involve magic, and you've got the ideal build."

However, it turned out that Saturday night involved other games.

Bethany approached the boys towards the end of dinner.

"The girls can't get over that I got stroked by a boy," she said, with a big grin, "Why don't we make some money out of it. Four-way split: I'll drum up business; Harold and James are lookouts and box office; Adam does his romantic stuff."

"Brilliant!" said Harold, "Are you on, Adam?"

"What would I have to do?" asked Adam, dubiously.

"Well, I thought one Galleon for sixty seconds of feeling—you know: stroking and squeezing," said Bethany, "And five Galleons for kissing all over the bosom, but specially the nipples."

"Nipples?" gasped Adam, "Would they have their tops off?"

"Off course; and for the one-Galleon experience too."

"What about this kissing on the nipples?"

"Oh, tickling with the tongue, sucking—"

"WHAT! I'm not doing that; I don't want to drink girls' milk, thanks!"

"Girls don't get milk until they have babies. You'll be all right. You'll love it."

They finally talked Adam round.

They set up shop in an alcove on the seventh floor.

There were three sizes of footstool, so that the girls' chests were level with Harold's face.

It was quickly established that both hands would be brought into play, even when the five-minute mouthwork was in progress.

There was no shortage of customers, some of them arriving with one hand inside their robe, doing Harold didn't want to know what. Some of these girls moaned loudly while Adam was operating. Good lord, thought Harold; could girls get orgasms too? But they couldn't spurt their eggs out, or their babies wouldn't get born.

There was always a queue, which was good as the queuers were able to keep male sightseers away; but after an hour, the queue dispersed amid cries of _Prefects!_

To Harold's dismay, Angelina Johnson strode up. He was much relieved when she handed over five Galleons, saying: "Quick, Adam, darling!"

She suspended whatever her other hand was doing inside her robe, to bare two big, eighteen-year-old, black tits.

Adam had scarcely begun to work with his tongue, when her moans began; they became louder and louder, becoming full-bodied screams which lasted up to the four-minute mark.

There couldn't have been a better advertisement, and a substantial queue remained until ten to nine, when Bethany announced: "That's all! Curfew!"

It wasn't quite all, because Bethany demanded one on the house, achieving great satisfaction from five-and-a-bit Galleons-worth.

Back in Hufflepuff, Harold took Adam straight to the dormitory, as the girls were all over him, and he wanted to rest his jaw.

His four friends came, and tried to quiz Adam about Muggle life.

"He can hardly talk, his jaw's so stiff," said Harold, "Let's tell him all about Hogwarts instead!"

When they went to bed, Harold drew the curtains, and put on a _Muffliato!_ demonstrating it to Adam by yelling: "Help! Adam's got a gun!"

"I bet you had the horn all night," said Harold, addressing Adam who was lying at the foot of the bed.

"Not really," said Adam, "Wasn't all that bothered. It was hard-earned money. I never want to suck another nipple in my life."

"Yeah. Girls are weird: imagine enjoying that."

"We enjoyed toe-sucking."

"We haven't done that in _years_. That wasn't sexy; it was just fun."

"Let's do it now," said Adam, putting the thought into action.

"No, let's try this!" said Harold, jumping up in order to fasten his lips around one of Adam's nipples.

He enjoyed doing this for five minutes; then Adam did him which he enjoyed a bit more.

They worked out independently that, by turning round, it was possible for each boy to do the other simultaneously. Their fun was dramatically enhanced when groping hands found stiff pricks. They wanked each other off while stimulating each other's nipples.

Both boys had big nipples, but Adam provided the bonus of a respectable pair of what the rugby club referred to as _man-tits_.

The evening in female company must have keyed them up, as they both had moany orgasms. In fact, it was easily Harold's best orgasm ever.

They went to sleep in that extraordinary position: sucking a nipple; squeezing a prick with one hand; and an arse with the other.

It was nothing to do with sex, though; this was just friends being friendly.

The next morning they went down to the Great Hall, but Harold pulled Adam back sharply: Snape was on duty.

Harold didn't piss about, but got them into Hogsmeade and onto the Floo right away, stopping at Nottingham for breakfast.

Then he had the pleasure of a quick reunion with Tom and Luke, before Sunday lunch with his parents.

They extracted a promise that this was the last prank before the exams.

His dad Apparated him to the Floo-point, and he was back at Hogwarts in time for dinner.

That night, he missed Adam, and wished they'd had a morning wank.

Then it was work, work, work again.

The next few days had a couple of minor annoyances: Snape, who didn't miss a thing, was irritated that Harold wouldn't explain who the stranger was; and Bethany was irritated that Harold wasn't jealous of Adam.

But Snape soon softened as he saw how hard all ten Hufflepuff fifth-years were trying.

And Bethany thawed to the extent that she suggested they meet in the holidays, when Harold could do _that_ to her, and perhaps a bit more.

But there would be no Easter holiday for Harold: like several other students, he elected to stay at Hogwarts and get some serious studying done.

After a hard-slogging summer term, the O.W.L.'s came, and proved less of a disaster than he'd feared. He walked out the last exam pretty sure that he was averaging "Exceeds Expectations." He might even have got an "Outstanding" for Potions, though the thought of suffering Snape for another two years was off-putting; still he was a good teacher, and that was what really mattered.

He might have achieved another "Outstanding" for History of Magic, but that was not significant.

James, of course, had probably done that much better, but what pleased Harold most was the smiling confidence of Wayne.

They celebrated by sneaking brooms out of the shed and having races round the lake, keeping themselves awake by occasionally skinny-dipping _in_ the lake.

And at the same time, Harry Potter was defeating Voldemort in the Ministry. Harold didn't bother much about Voldemort: if an ordinary boy like Harry could defeat him four—or was it five?—times, he couldn't be much of a threat. He felt sorry for Harry, though: there was so much suffering in his eyes; but why _should_ he feel sorry for him? Harry had good friends, and Harold knew how wonderful that was.

Presumably the Ministry fighting was linked to the late-night assaults on Hagrid and McGonagall. Now that Voldemort had been zapped again, they would presumably be returning—and Dumbledore. Good: he liked them all.

He went for a walk with Bethany a couple of days later.

She was talking about meeting in the summer holidays. He told her that all he could think about was his forthcoming walking holiday with his Muggle friends, and maybe he'd send her an owl.

She was less than pleased, and told him how she _really, really liked_ him.

Lots of girls had been telling him that. He guessed that this was because Harold was the nearest they could get to Adam, who was the ultimate object of desire for many girls in the school—at least two dozen, if the number of messages left on the Hufflepuff table for forwarding was any indication. Harold had Vanished these unread.

He changed the subject.

It was while he was talking about neutral topics, that Malfoy approached and taxed him with Adam. The Slytherins had finally got wind of the jape.

"You said he was a pureblood!" said Malfoy.

"I didn't lie," said Harold, "He's a pureblood Muggle."

"You brought a Muggle into Hogwarts! You're a blood traitor."

"Guilty! Now go away please; and take your two bodyguards with you."

"You'll hear more about this, Holmes."

"Look forward to it."

Good for Malfoy! He'd upset the unpleasantly romantic atmosphere.

But it was the conversation with Bethany rather than Malfoy that he replayed in his mind as he lay in bed that night.

For the first time in his life, he wondered if he might be gay.

On the Hogwarts Express, Harold, James, Ernie, Justin, Simon and Wayne took a compartment to themselves, locking the door and debarring offended girlfriends, male friends, Wayne's boyfriends and fans. _It's a boys' day_ they said, _We want to bond_.

They expected to return to Hogwarts, but they felt that this was a special moment: after five years of friendship, loyalty and mutual help, they were now sixteen years old, qualified (examiners permitting) wizards, and approaching adulthood.

They talked seriously for a time, then moved to memories of their days at Hogwarts, periodically breaking into laughter.

They had passed St Neots, and changed into Muggle clothes when Ernie went serious again, and asked what they wanted for the future.

Harold wanted good weather for his walking holiday.

James wanted all six of them to return to Hogwarts next term.

Ernie wanted an end to You-Know-Who.

Justin wanted world peace and plenty of fillet steak.

Simon wanted to shag Harry Potter.

Wayne wanted:

_Blue skies_

_Dragon pies_

_French fries_

_Soft sighs_

_Open flies_

_Smooth thighs_

_Big surprise_

_Loud cries_

_And an arsehole full of spunk._

"I reckon you've got the best chance, Wayne," laughed Ernie.

**10**

The four boys from Witeney Pass were sixteen, and the three sets of parents had agreed that they could go on holiday by themselves.

The Muggles' first thought was of a holiday camp. Harold was relieved that this idea had been quickly abandoned: he had always confused holiday camps and concentration camps in Muggle Studies.

Then Adam had suggested travelling, and Tom moors and mountains.

So it was to be a walking tour, and on his first day in Muggle land, Harold went to the Guests at nine in the morning to discuss details.

They picked up Tom, and sat at a picnic table in the Nature Reserve to talk.

"Four hunky rugger players," said Harold, "Yet we embraced when we met this morning. Is that gay?"

_No!_ they all said.

"We've been wanking each other for years. Is that gay?"

_No!_

"All boys do that," said Tom.

"What about sucking toes?" said Harold.

"That's just a laugh."

"What about nipples, then? Did Adam tell you about that?"

"Yeah, we've done it."

"That's just a laugh too," said Luke.

"Why do we do all these weird things?" asked Harold.

"It's not weird," said Tom, fiercely, "It's how we express our friendship."

"And brothership," said Luke, drawing an affectionate smile from Adam.

"We're not in the least gay," said Tom, "You've got a girlfriend, Harold; we've all been out with girls; Adam's had ten million nips in his mouth."

"Talking of my girlfriend," said Harold, "A few days ago she told me she really, really liked me. She was obviously trying to get me to say I loved her; but I don't: I like her, the same as I like lots of people.

"I got to thinking who I loved. Mum and Dad, obviously; the boys I've shared a dorm with for five years; one or two others.

"But I realised the people I loved most deeply and passionately were Tom Wellings, Adam Guest and Luke Guest.

"And I've been suppressing that thought for years.

"So put all the stuff together, and I reckon I'm gay."

There was a moment's stillness before Adam blurted out: "You're not one of _them_; you're one of _us_!"

He giggled nervously, and shifted on the bench so that he was pressing against Harold.

Then he did what he'd been doing casually for six years: he put an arm round Harold's shoulders. Harold in turn pressed back, knowing that this time it meant something special.

Harold caught a glint in Tom's eye, and knew that he would have liked to have made little of the matter by diverting things into a rough-and-tumble. But there was a table restricting his movements.

The Spirit of Fun was in the air, and Harold might himself have brushed the matter aside with a coarse joke, had not Luke come out with: "We don't need to go into all that stuff. You make it sound Truly, Madly, Deeply—all Hollywood drivel. Me and Adam haven't spent sixteen years saying we love each other: we know that without saying it."

Harold was fired-up again.

"Say it today!" he told Luke, "Everybody say it. I love you, Luke; I love you, Adam; I love you, Tom."

Before Luke could speak, Adam took the plunge, and uttered the mantra.

Then Luke spoke followed by Tom.

"Say it like you mean it, Tom!" said Luke.

"I _do_ mean it," said Tom, then after a brief pause continued: "Right. Let's get down to planning the tour."

"Provided you're all happy to go round the country with a gay boy," said Harold.

There was a _Yeah!_ from Adam; a _Yeah, yeah_ from Tom, but Luke was whiney again: "We've been through all that," he said, "You're _not_ gay. It's love, and it's normal with friends."

"It's not torture," said Harold, "All you have to do is say: _My name is Luke and I am going on holiday with my gay friend Harold_."

Amid gales of laughter, Luke spoke the words.

"Let's celebrate with a wank!" said Adam.

"Let's celebrate by deciding about the tent," laughed Tom.

They decided about the tent, and other matters, and _then_ had a wank before going home to lunch, agreeing to keep Harold's gayness as secret as his wizardry.

Harold and his parents, made a visit to the Ministry to be interviewed and tested so that Harold would be permitted to use some simple Charms while holidaying among the Muggles.

"We're sorry to put you out, Ms Hopkirk," said Mrs Holmes.

"Not at all," said the Ministry official, "We're not exactly inundated with applications. The last one from Hogwarts students was for Rocky Clements; a very polite boy, who used his _Permittatur_ so conscientiously that there was never a need for Intervention. I hope you do the same, Harold."

"Yes Miss."

Harold kept a straight face: Rocky had told some hair-raising tales of the magic he had done in Muggle land.

On the big day, Mr Wellings drove them to Kennesmaw Station whence, by means of three trains, they found their way to a pretty little port. They arrived in the late afternoon, found a campsite, and spent the rest of the day eating winkles and playing in the arcades.

At ten o'clock, they successfully set up the tent, and retired for the night. They had a nice collective wank, and wormed their way into their four sleeping bags. They were too excited to sleep at once and chatted together, catching up some more on what had happened since the Christmas holidays.

It was quite a big tent—ten foot by eight—but they all instinctively clumped the sleeping bags together. Adam kept an arm around Harold all night. This was more than friendship; more than fun; more than hero-worship, thought Harold, happily.

They each had huge backpacks, which the Muggle parents laughed at; and even their sons were dubious about Harold's promised Weight Reduction Charm.

But when they set off inland, across the moors, they seemed to have featherlight weights on their shoulders.

It wasn't a race, so they took things easily. Even so, they covered twenty miles on the first day finding a perfect spot to set up camp, close to a stream which they used for washing and drinking.

They had enough food to be self-sufficient for a few days, and thought it was Heaven to light their little Primus, and cook their evening meal.

It was lonely, so they had all the more reason to huddle together in their sleeping bags.

"This is nice, isn't it?" said Adam.

"Yeah," said Harold.

"It's not like when we used to share a bed, though, is it?"

"Would you like to share a sleeping bag?"

"Yeah. We could have got double bags"

"Shall I show you the miracle of _Coniungo!_?"

"Yeah."

Adam was ready to go along with anything suggested by Harold.

"Get out, then."

Harold produced some light, lined up the sleeping bags, and performed the Joining Charm.

"Wow!" said Adam, climbing in with alacrity.

"Night-night, boys," said Harold, putting the light out, and climbing in with Adam.

"It's tight, isn't it?" said Harold.

"We could save tons of space if we took our clothes off," said Harold.

The sentence was still unfinished when Adam started removing his T-shirt and underpants.

"Are you really in the nuddy?" asked Tom.

His reply took the form of a pair of pants flung at his head.

It was still a tight fit—a delightfully tight fit: the length of their bodies pressed together as they lay on their sides, face to face.

With a bit of contortion, Harold squirmed his right arm under Adam's neck. Adam reciprocated with his left arm, while Harold pushed his left leg between Adam's legs.

In this position they were able to cuddle tightly. Everything was getting better and better. Harold could feel his thighs interacting with Adam's thighs; their chests pressing together; but best of all, his hard prick pressing against something equally hard.

Adam's hand lowered to fondle Harold's arse, which was one of the more substantial ones among the Hogwarts boys. But it was nothing in comparison to Adam's. As Harold stroked and squeezed the huge twin mounds, he felt total elation: never in his life had he been so happy.

There noses pressed together. Adam giggled, and shook his nose like an Eskimo.

Harold tilted his head, and pressed his lips against Adam's.

His friend parted his own lips slightly and pressed back, giving an encouraging little extra squeeze of Harold's arse.

Then Harold slowly inserted his tongue between Adam's lips, and the two boys were gently kissing.

Harold felt that this was the moment that his whole life had been aimed at.

For the first time, he fully recognised that he was gay: totally gay, and gay forever.

True, Adam was a close, beloved friend, but Harold knew that if Adam didn't exist, he would want to do this with Luke, or Tom, or some other boy: this was pure male-to-male physicality, and females were off Harold's menu from now on.

The kissing became more and more ardent. He felt his orgasm on him, and pushed his tongue extra-deep into Adam's mouth as the first spurt came, to be followed by many more. He'd never dreamt that he could gush out so much spunk, and take so long doing it.

He continued kissing Adam, though less strongly, but Adam was getting excited now, sucking Harold's tongue strongly, and jerking his body—not that there was much room for jerking in the sleeping bag.

Adam experienced the same epic orgasm as Harold, but much, much noisier. Although his mouth was more-or-less stopped by Harold's, a series of screams came from Adam's throat while Harold felt another deluge of hot fluid flooding over his midriff.

After Adam had stopped jerking and screaming the boys continued to kiss, but in a gentle, loving, dreamy way.

"I love you, Harold," whispered Adam.

"And I love you," whispered Harold.

"I love you, Luke; I love you, Tom," said Adam, a little more loudly, and closely echoed by Harold.

"I love you, Adam; I love you Tom," whispered Luke.

Tom was asleep; and the other three soon followed his example.

Harold woke up several times in the night: the boys needed to change their sleeping position periodically, to relieve their cramped muscles.

Their final position was with Adam half on his back and Harold half leaning on his chest, having allowed himself a little sleepy nipple-sucking.

He finally woke at about half past seven, with the morning sun shining through the tent's roof.

He looked over at the other couple. Tom was sleeping with a protective arm flung around Luke's sleeping bag.

They had used their clothes as pillows, and Tom had moved his head over to share Luke's pile. Harold wondered if they had kissed. He hoped they had.

They were going to be kissed now: Harold wriggled out of his sleeping bag and kissed Luke and Tom gently.

Both lads awoke, and neither seemed to mind being kissed. Harold's heart brimmed over with love for his three friends.

They dragged Adam out of his sleeping bag, and bathed in the stream. Thanks to the Weight Reduction Charm, they had brought a set of toiletries, which they all shared. They even had bog paper for those who needed it.

Breakfast was the inevitable full English, and having totally cleaned up their site, they set off for their second day's walking. After five miles, they came to a little town where they topped up their food at the supermarket.

Then it was off again, walking at lower pace than on the first day, as the going had become hilly—only gentle hills, but enough to require frequent pauses to admire the view.

They found another ideal campsite, remote from humans and close to a stream. They washed their inner clothes using Muggle technology, but dried them by means of a magical stream of hot air.

While the clothes were drying, they bathed in the stream.

The only problem was blisters, but they had a good supply of Murtlap Essence, which sorted them out.

They had boil-in-the-bag meals, saving their tinned stuff for when they were far from any shops.

They were tired, and went to bed with the sun: full, fit and fresh as daisies.

"Harold," said Luke, "Do you think you could Coniungo me and Tom tonight?"

Harold obliged, and Adam said: "I love you Harold, and it's nice squeezing against you, but could you give us a bit more room please? Does that Engorgio thing work on sleeping bags?"

"Certainly does," said Harold, and obliged again.

"I should have thought of this last night," he added, waving his wand and summoning up a pair of pillows, "Shall I create another?"

"No," said Tom.

So Harold and Adam had a second night in Heaven; Luke and Tom were happy too, to judge by Luke's squeaks, though he wasn't an out-and-out screamer like his brother. Tom and Harold both stayed silent while they were coming.

In this way, the four boys spent their idyllic holiday. Every day, an owl came from the Holmeses, and Harold replied that they were all okay, whence the news (_by telephone_) was passed to the Wellings and the Guests.

By the fourth day, they were into a countryside full of dales: every time they reached the top of a ridge, they stood rejoicing at a green valley with a stream meandering through.

One night, seven days into the trip, Harold was woken by Luke's cry: _No! Stop!_ Alarmed, he reached for his wand, but heard Tom whispering _Oh, Sorry, Luke!_ and further endearments. He guessed that the boys had had a go at bumming, and it had turned out too painful. He was not surprised: Tom had a big fat prick, easily the biggest of the four, and the mere thought of it piercing his arsehole had Harold wriggling uncomfortably.

Harold wasn't keen on the concept of bumming: he might have enjoyed shagging hell out of Adam, had it not been for all the shit; and he certainly didn't fancy getting bummed himself.

On the next day, Harold was touched by Tom's solicitude and overt affection for Luke. When there was no-one around, he would walk close to Luke, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes with an affectionate arm draped around him. Adam picked up on Tom's example, and kept in physical contact with Harold as much as possible.

After a sublime ten days, they found themselves on the border of a region of lakes and mountains.

They had to be home in four days for family holiday commitments, and decided they would leave the magnificent region for a later walking tour. They took a train to a big city, and found plenty to do, spending two nights camping in a public park, where the various Muggle-repellent Charms which Harold had learned for his Charms O.W.L. proved that they really worked.

Then it was back home, where the Muggle boys clocked in with their parents before leaving to stay overnight at Harold's before the brothers left for their Muggle plane ride to Tunisia.

This was their first visit to a wizard home, and they were fascinated by the way a house without electricity was run.

They put the tent up in the garden, and by some sort of osmosis, agreed to sleep as a foursome.

Harold had kissed Tom and Luke, but had never snogged them before. It was brilliant, but the boys still stuck to their pairings when it came to orgasms. The smell of four orgasms was overpowering, but to his surprise, Harold found that he'd come to like the strange, acrid odour.

The next day, the O.W.L. results came. Harold had done about as well as he had expected. His parents were euphoric, and his dad offered to buy Harold a special present, but Harold couldn't think of anything.

"Are you telling us that your life is perfect?" asked his dad.

"I rather think it is," said Harold.

"Buy _us_ something instead Mr Holmes," said Tom, cheekily.

"When do you get _your_ results?" asked Mr Holmes.

"We've got to sweat it out for a month."

Harold's life remained perfect as an owl circling twice reported that all five of his dormitory would be returning to Hogwarts.

He had a couple of nights sleeping alone with Tom Wellings. Tom didn't rank with Adam as a high-volume spunk factory, but Harold found him a much fiercer lover—almost aggressive in his intensity and violence. Yet, when not actually engaged in sex, there was a new Tom: affectionate, thoughtful, gently physical—a _gay_ Tom, thought Harold.

Two days before the Hogwarts Express, they had another foursome.

After sex, they discussed the future:

"You'll look after Adam while I'm away, won't you?" said Harold.

"Number one priority," said Luke, giving his brother a wet kiss.

"Who's going to look after you?" asked Adam.

"I'm going to find a boyfriend," said Harold.

"Will you take much stick?" asked Tom.

"No; we're an easy-going house in an easy-going school."

"Will you bring your boyfriend back here at Christmas, so we can meet him?" asked Adam.

"Maybe," said Harold, "but you might not like him."

"If he's _your_ boyfriend, I'm already in love with him."

"You two are so romantic!" said Tom, and the ensuing huddle demonstrated that there were _four_ romantics in the tent.

They said their fond goodbyes, and Tom stated what they all felt: "In July we were all boys; now we're men."

**11**

Harold had given some thought as to whom he would like as a boyfriend.

An _obiter dictum_ of Danny Jorrocks was that availability went a long way towards sexual desirability. On those grounds, Wayne Hopkins, who regularly spent nights away, and Simon Fox, whose credentials for straightness had been undermined by some outrageous behaviour at the Yule Ball, and other celebrations, would be star candidates; but Harold couldn't find it in himself to lust after boys he'd lived with day-in and day-out for five years.

Within his year, there was also the pretty Peter Berg from Ravenclaw: supposed to be straight now, but with a track record like his who knew? And Harold was sure that once they were proper boyfriends, he would be able to take Berg's reportedly disgusting sexual practices in his stride.

A year above him, there were Andrew Merryweather and Kyle Dickinson, both of whom had, he suspected, made coded advances to him in the past. Then there was Pete Bradley: he went out with girls, but always sat in Queer Corner.

A year below him, there were the fabulously good-looking Colin Creevey and Adam Watts—no, not Adam: somebody had said that he and Poxon were tied up to the extent that they were going through some sort of marriage ceremony; and if Harold were to take on Harris from Gryffindor, he would have to include his perennial companion, Neil.

There was Derek Rath, of course: but he _must_ be spoken for by now as he'd been with so many boys in his time. Anyway, he was, like Wayne and Simon, too much like part of the furniture.

The Slytherin boy, Gonzalo Harper, though never actually caught with anyone, was pretty flamboyant.

There were younger boys, but the ones who he fancied, or who were likely to be available, were as like as not pre-pubescent, which wasn't his scene.

He would ask James's advice. James would be surprised at Harold's sudden change of sexuality, but would surely be able to suggest the best boy or boys to approach.

There was no time for a quiet word with James on the Hogwarts Express, or during the frenetic first-night activities.

Then there came a severe damper on boyfriend prospects: a ban on slipping out of your dormitory at night; and a ban on visiting other dormitories except during the vanilla hours of six to eight in the evening.

Hufflepuff tried to set something up so that dormitories could be reserved during the sex-period; but this was more for the benefit of people who were already involved with each other than for people who would a-wooing go, and was, in any case, soon zapped by the prefects.

The gay project was put on hold.

But out of the blue, Derek Rath went round recruiting boys for the Nine O'Clock Club: Somewhere to go and someone to go with.

Harold signed up at once: he wouldn't have to make decisions, and he would get a lucky dip.

There was no need to consult James now; anyway, because of the Secrecy Charms, he knew that he wouldn't be able to. In fact, secrecy was a good thing: he wouldn't have to spend hours explaining himself.

Bethany cornered him to nag him about his summer-long silence. He told her that he had got engaged to be married to a Muggle girl. This earned him a lot of tears and a slapped face, but made sure that the break was total and lasting.

One Wednesday evening, Harold was working in the study room next to the library with James Gloyne, Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley. There were also a couple of girls.

Wayne Hopkins arrived in a state of high excitement.

He sat at the table and said: "Harold, I'd never have thought it of you in a million years!"

Harold knew at once what Wayne was on about, and glanced at his companions with a touch of disquiet.

"Don't worry 'bout them; they can't hear a thing," said Wayne, "This is the best news there's ever been; it's a triumph for sexual liberty."

"Don't build it up," laughed Harold, "It's only one sixth-year looking to get his balls emptied. _You're_ the big surprise, Wayne: you're one of the star Mr Gays; plenty of partners and no need to keep it secret. You don't need th Club."

"You're forgetting the Club gives us a _place_; but we'd all have joined anyway: Danny Jorrocks united all the Mr Gays into Team Gay."

"How did you find out about me, Wayne?"

"You're opening the show, mate! Nine o'clock on Sunday, Project _Empty Harold's Balls_ is launched."

"Who told you that?"

"The List's up."

"Oh the List! I'd forgotten."

"And?"

"Eh?"

"Don't you know who you're partner is?"

Wayne was bubbling with mirth.

"Oh, bloody hell! Tell me quick!" gasped Harold.

"You'll never guess."

"Tell me!"

"Guess. Guess an unlikely boy."

"I don't know," said Harold, beginning to laugh, "Claude Miles, Professor Snape, Goblin Rebellion of Sixteen Twelve, Council Tax. If you don't tell me now, Wayne Hopkins, I swear I'll put such an arse-blocking Hex on you that the shit'll have to come out your mouth—which it does anyway."

"It's Murch," said Wayne, laughing loudly.

"Martin Murch?"

"Yeah."

"_Our_ Martin Murch?"

"Yeah."

Harold laughed: he and Murchy had spent a major proportion of the last three years in friendly rivalry on the sports field. Off the field, they had indulged in no end of pranks and horseplay. The thought of having sex with him was hilarious.

"Oh Wayne!" gasped Harold, "I'll go through with it and he'll be laughing as much as me."

Wayne's laughter increased as he said: "You've already groped each other enough!"

"True. I think I bit him on the arse once too."

The pair were in fits. So was James.

"What's funny James," asked Harold; then the bombshell hit him: "JAMES! YOU?

James nodded being unable to speak.

Harold spoke more seriously: "James are you really and truly in the Nine O'Clock Club?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry for being surprised. I never thought of you as wanting a sex life; which was a pretty mean way to treat a friend."

"Not mean. The card came round and I took _myself_ by surprise."

"Me and you might be drawn together one day. That would be even funnier then me and Martin, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah."

Harold turned back to Wayne. "Who else is on the list?" he asked, "Is James on?"

"I don't know," said Wayne, "I saw your name and ran to tell you."

"Let's go and look."

They rose to their feet.

"Yes, it's worth checking on the Goblin Rebellion of Sixteen Twelve," said Justin.

They hurried to Hufflepuff, and there, on the notice board was confirmation:

_Sun Ronnie Clack V(H) Harold Holmes VI(H)_

_ Ephraim Chambers VI(R) Martin Murch IV(R)_

Harold whistled: Ronnie Clack, greasy-haired, specky and mildly retarded, paired with glamorous Chaser, Chambers; and not just paired: _established_. How long had they been having sex on the sly?

Harold and Wayne talked about this miracle, until James interrupted with: "I've got Thursday!"

Further down the list, Harold saw:

_Thu Cho Chang VII(R) James Gloyne VI(H)_

_ Michael Corner VI(R) Alexander Bell II(G)_

"Is that good or bad, mate?" asked Harold, "I mean a little second-year won't be much cop for prick-fun, but he's a real looker—though not in the same league as his little friend, Paul Smith. I'd give anything to spend a night with _him_. Have you seen the way his hair flops over his eye? and his mouth—"

"Give over, Harold," laughed Wayne, "Smith's a non-runner. Anyway, we're talking about James; and don't you worry James: Bell's Colin Creevey's special friend, so he'll know a penis from a peewit. You just have a nice chat and let him set the pace."

"Good advice, Wayne," said Harold, "And there'll always be more advice on the night if you want: Corner and Chang are a definite item now. You'll have romantic company."

"Let's see who else is on the List," said Wayne.

They had a look: there were several first-years, and some surprises, but the biggest wonder was at the bottom:

_Sat Cho Chang VII(R) Johnny Rudd V(H)_

_ Michael Corner VI(R) Alan Campbell I(G)_

Harold had to read the line several times to be sure that his eyes were working.

"I don't believe it!" he said, "Johnny Rudd! Wayne this _must_ be a wind-up!"

"Welcome to the gay world," said Wayne, "Full of happy surprises; and the Nine O'Clock Club specially, though I haven't had _my_ surprise yet."

They took a corner-sofa, and thought about the future.

There were a few visitors to the house, including the ever-popular Tintin Wilkes. This year, he had a new, equally girly, friend, Christopher Bloom. The two little dolls were surrounded by a fan club comprised mainly of girls, but including tonight the beautiful MacKenzie twins—archcuties _in excelsis_.

"Remember last year, James, when we talked about cutie first-years?" said Harold, "We never thought you'd be in bed with one of them."

"Yeah," said James, "And if you'd told me that at the time, I'd've guessed Gideon."

"There's more cuties this year," said Wayne.

"Yeah," said Harold, "There's our twins, and David Mason,"

"Ruairidth McKay, Alan Campbell, and David Young in Gryffindor."

"Scott Absalom, and Christopher Bloom in Ravenclaw."

"And Lachlan Tibbs, and Sean MacFarlane in Slytherin."

They looked at the twins with some pride: beautiful, clever and friendly; they were a credit to Hufflepuff.

Three girls came up and told Harold that Murch was here to see him. They were giving Harold _that_ look: everyone knew that Harold was engaged to a Muggle girl; but she wasn't at Hogwarts, and Bethany Cook, who _was_ at Hogwarts, had lost her power. Harold was newly-glamorous and newly-available.

"I tried to get out of it," grinned Martin Murch, at the door, "But Adam Watts told me it would be bad form."

"I tried to get out of it," countered Harold, "But Derek Rath said that this was the only good thing that had ever happened to you in your miserable life, and he didn't want a suicide on his hands."

"It'd be mass suicide if people looked at you and thought this was the future of the human race."

"Come on in, then, Bombhead, and have a cocoa."

"Alright Hoppy? Alright Jimmy?" said Martin as he sat down; "Oi! Del-boy!" he shouted, and Derek Rath joined the party.

"Tell me it's a fix," said Martin.

"Trim your canvas, you scurvy lubber," said Derek, "It's all shipshape and ruled by Neptune; and a better crew of old sea-dogs the Old Man couldn't have picked."

Derek was going to join the Wizard Navy. His metaphors were all to do with sailing ships, but Derek was actually aiming at the modern fleet: those _Foul Steamboats_, as the old tars called them; but known to their crew as _Lots of Bum at Sea_.

"When this crew wants his mainmast properly manhandled and the other crew can't hold a hockey stick without it flying off like a Bludger, I don't call that shipshape," laughed Martin.

"I'd got wanker's hands," said Harold, "Which proves my competence."

"It's a gime though, innit?" said Martin, "You got any form, Holmesey?"

"Yeah, with my Muggle friends?"

"Worse things happen at sea, don't they, Del-boy? Gonna call for me at five to nine."

"Yeah, okay."

"I don't know what the fuss is about," laughed Wayne, "I've seen the two of you rolling about the Changing Room starkers often enough."

"Talking of which," said Martin, "I reckon it's the rugby season."

They discussed sporting matters until Curfew

Harold knew that, despite the badinage, Martin was as delighted as he was at Neptune's pairing.

**12**

On Sunday night, Harold showered, while smilingly resisting the urge to masturbate.

He went to Ravenclaw to collect Martin, and the two boys arrived at the Club Premises on the dot.

Chambers and Clack were already there, and Harold, followed by Martin, shook hands.

The other two were clearly feeling awkward and shy.

"You look awkward and shy," said Harold, "Would you like to go straight to your own bed?"

"What do you think, Harold?" asked Ephraim.

"I think we're four boys who are having a wonderful chance to express their feelings for other boys, and we should tell each other our stories."

"Good idea," said Ephraim.

"In the nude," said Martin, taking his clothes off.

Harold immediately followed suit, and the other two slowly and a little nervously.

Harold was familiar with Ephraim's and Martin's bodies from the Changing Room, so he was most interested in Ronnie's. It was as scrawny as expected, but with an unexpectedly attractive chest—Harold had always been a sucker for nipples.

He tried not to stare, but Ronnie knew that both Harold and Martin were glancing now and then.

Martin kicked off with: "You all know me: I like sports, games, pranks and jokes. What you don't know is that I like sex. I started to come a year ago, and since then I've wanked three or four times a day. My record is twelve—or so; I lost count—that day in the Easter hols when it never stopped raining.

"This Club gives me the chance to have someone else's hand doing it. I really thought it must be fixed 'cos I can't think of a better person than Harold, even though he can't match me in brains, looks, physique, sporting skills—"

"Or modesty," said Harold.

Martin agreed: "Or modesty; or compassion; and really we must all take pity on our afflicted—"

"Have pity on us all, and stop this verbal diarrhoea, Murchy," laughed Harold, then: "Ephraim and Ronnie please tell all!"

He saw that Ronnie was getting more nervous, and thought a Clack-orientated review might calm him.

Ephraim told the tale, of course, and a sweet tale it was: they knew each other from Hogwarts, so when they met during their family holidays at Saltburn, they hung around together. Almost accidentally, a kiss turned into a snog, and ended up in two pairs of spunky bathing trunks.

Being in separate years and houses, they hadn't expected to see much of each other, but the Club had given them this chance.

"I think that's one of the most romantic stories I've ever heard," said Harold, and proceeded to give a compressed account of his dealings with the three Muggle boys. He laid great emphasis on kissing, and how a long snog was more important than spunking up—this was mainly for Martin's benefit, as he didn't want to spring it on him unprepared.

They chatted some more about their sexual feelings, before retiring to bed.

Harold and Martin lay face to face, with an arm around each other.

Harold pressed his lips against Martin's for a few seconds, then slowly inserted his tongue; he licked around the inside of the boy's mouth for a couple of seconds; then Martin briefly touched Harold's tongue with his own before turning his head away.

"You're not getting away with that," laughed Harold, before turning Martin onto his back and lying on top of him.

Martin struggled, but Harold's superior weight was too much for him.

They played hare and hounds with their lips, as Harold's head chased Martin's.

"It says _Mutual_ _Consent_," giggled Martin.

"The law doesn't deal in trifles," said Harold, "Anyway, you _are_ consenting,"

"Not!"

"Then why have you got a bloody great horn?"

He grabbed Martin's ears and immobilised his head so that lips met lips.

Martin kept his mouth tightly closed, while Harold licked all round his lips.

There were two bloody great horns pressing against each other, and Harold started rubbing them backwards and forwards.

Almost immediately, Martin opened his mouth and pushed his tongue against Harold's.

Lust had taken over, and the boys were snogging properly and jerking their bodies.

Martin was the first to release his flood, with Harold closely following.

It was wonderful—just like that first time with Adam. He didn't love Martin _Truly, Madly, Deeply_ as he loved his Muggle friends, but he felt a warmth and comradeship that was good enough to be going on with.

He was touched that the younger boy clearly felt the same: he was hugging Harold tightly.

All the time he and Martin had been having their fun, Harold had been half-aware of something going on on the other side of the curtain: from the mutterings, yelps, and other sound effects, it sounded as though one of the boys was trying, unsuccessfully, to bum the other.

He moved off Martin and each boy lay with one arm cuddling his friend.

"Do you like the Nine O'Clock club?" he asked.

"Bloody brilliant, mate," said Martin.

Harold reached behind him, and moved Martin's hand onto his arse; then he squeezed Martin's arse.

"Bloody good arse!" he said.

"And yours, said Martin, "Bloody powerhouse of an arse!"

They lay still. Martin had dropped off, but Harold was thinking of the complexities of Love. There were so many kinds of love; and so many degrees. When did friendship become love? And where did sex fit in? He wished he'd talked to Danny Jorrocks when he had the chance.

He thought about these matters for some time.

Then Martin shifted in his sleep, and Harold's finger pressed against his friend's arsehole. He moved his finger away, and thought about arseholes: there was nothing inherently unattractive about them, but the presence of shit was totally off-putting.

Yet they were supposed to be prick-magnets for proper gays. On the other hand, there were other sorts of proper gays for whom pricks acted as arse-magnets. And were there some who liked it both ways?

He decided that, given a guarantee of cleanliness, he wouldn't mind shagging an arse, but wouldn't enjoy being shagged.

But if you loved someone? . . . Yes! He would make the sacrifice: he would allow anyone he loved to bum him.

He replayed these thoughts, and as if in commentary, there were, at last, sounds of progress next door.

Harold drifted into sleep accompanied by one of Nature's most wonderful gifts to mankind: the sound of a happy teenage boy bouncing on top of another, equally happy, one.

He woke up aware that something was wrong. He tried to move and realised that he couldn't.

Fully awake now, he opened his eyes, and saw a penis six inches away.

Martin had wrapped him in the bedding, and was having a wank.

"Oh no!" Harold giggled.

"Oh yes!" laughed Martin, "You've got a sexy face, Harold Dear; it's really turning me on."

Harold closed his eyes seconds before the hot fluid smashed against his face. Three splashes. The strong boy-cum fumes filled his nose. It was funny and meaningful at the same time.

"See if I care!" he said, and leaning forward, licked the dribble coming from Martin's piss-slit.

Both boys were still in hysterics after re-making the bed and settling down again.

Harold guided Martin's hand downwards, and the boy, rather awkwardly, wanked him off. He even allowed Harold to kiss him with his spunky lips as he gushed.

Gay sex was good!

He arranged Martin so that he was leaning on his shoulder, and settled down for more sleep.

The boys next door were having another bumming-session.

Harold was woken after what felt like a nice wee nap, by Martin saying: _Are you awake?_—no it wasn't Martin: that had been Ephraim's voice.

He heard Ronnie murmur intensely: _What? Oh yes, darling! Now!_

The boys next door were at it again.

Harold's listened intently, for the first time undiverted by his own escapades. They were very quiet next door, and the loudest sound was Harold's tummy rumbling.

Then there came the rustle of bedclothes as Ephraim rubbed his penis inside Ronnie.

It was very erotic, and Harold's own penis wanted some more action.

His tummy rumbled again, and he prepared to relax his arsehole to release a fart; but it felt like a big one—too good to waste.

He gently rolled Martin onto his back, and squatted over his face, holding his head so that he could not escape the line of fire.

He loosened up preparatorily, and gave Martin's head a little shake.

As soon as Martin's eyes opened: _Pffffurmph!_ Harold released the ill wind that would blow Martin some good.

Instead of jerking his head sideways, Martin leant forward and licked Harold's arsehole, saying: "See if I care!"

They were reduced to giggles again.

Harold plumped down, and lay on his back beside Martin.

"You _still_ haven't wanked me," said Martin.

Harold reached out for Martin's prick; and Martin groped Harold's.

They wanked each other off, before settling to sleep yet again, Harold sucking Martin's nipple.

And all the time, there were rustling noises from the Chambers and Clack bed.

Harold was woken by his Wizard Alarm at a quarter to six.

Martin was already awake—and a very affectionate Martin it was: he was nuzzling Harold, kissing his neck and whispering _I love you_.

"Merlin's pubes, Martin!" said Harold, "I love you too, but we don't need to work it up into a pantomime."

"Just one more, mate," said Martin, giving Harold an extra-passionate kiss, and a last _I love you_.

Then it was time to get back to their houses.

Ronnie and Ephraim were in a dreadful state: hair dishevelled, bags under their eyes, walking like crippled jockeys.

The Ravenclaw pair split off for their tower, Harold and Martin parting with a wet kiss, an arse-grope, and a giggle.

Inside Hufflepuff, Harold squeezed Ronnie's arse: goodness, it was scrawny.

He went upstairs for some much-needed sleep, and what seemed like two seconds later, was woken by James shaking his shoulder.

All five of his friends were doubled up with laughter that morning, which was strange as Ernie, Justin and Simon weren't meant to know what had happened.

Then he saw himself in the bathroom mirror: his neck was a lunar landscape of love-bites.

"One-up to Murchy," he said, and steeled himself for several days of mockery.

**13**

Harold and James spoke only briefly about the Nine O'Clock Club before James's Thursday night date with Alexander Bell.

James was pensive all day on Friday and. that night, they were slogging away at their homework, when Harold announced: "Bedtime".

"It's an hour to go yet," said a girl.

"Me and James have got a prank on," said Harold.

"Good show, Harold," said Ernie, "Can we help?"

"We'll let you know."

"What's the prank?" asked James, as they walked to the dormitory.

"The prank is we tell each other about what happened."

Under Harold's direction they sat at opposite ends of James's bed, with drawn curtains and under a _Muffliato!_

Harold told about how he loved Tom, Luke and Adam; and how increasing physicality had led to sex and a realisation that he could never love Bethany, or any other girl, as he loved his friends; and how any future sex he might have with a girl would be simply a waste of time and ecstasy that could be used on boys.

"So I left Hoggie in July a perfectly normal hetero, and came back in September as a fully-developed homo," he said, "Did you see a difference?"

"None at all. It was still my friend Harold."

"Anyway Sunday night . . ." said Harold.

He described his doings with Martin.

James laughed several times—most loudly at the lovebites.

"Didn't you notice that everyone in the Club was talking about Murch?" he asked.

"No," said Harold.

"They were being discrete, obviously. Well, they thought that he'd bitten you every time he had an orgasm. They were arguing about whether there were fifteen or sixteen. Murch is the great superstud!"

"Absolutely brilliant!" said Harold, "I bet he's laughing his head off,"

"He doesn't know yet. Wayne says that Eddie Carmichael and Co are discussing whether justice is best served by giving Murch more goes, or sending him in with half a dozen boys at a time."

Harold laughed even more: "Eddie Carmichael and Co are too thick to be true Ravenclaws. They've forgotten that Danny Jorrocks and Co dished out comedy lovebites all last year; and they must know that sports players do it all the time."

"I think there's a bit of wishful thinking going on."

"Yeah. But enough about me and Murchy's nonsense. Tell us how you got on with our cute little Alexander—though he's not so little now, is he? He's really shot up over the last few months."

"Well, it was sort of Heaven. Only sort-of because I was feeling guilty all the time—still do."

"No need, James: he likes big boys and he knows what he wants."

"I know; but still . . . It felt so good, though: holding this gorgeous colt in my arms. It was nothing to do with sex: I felt that he'd taken me into his private world of Youth and Beauty.

"And when we kissed, it was the second most wonderful moment in my life. Then . . . You're not going to believe this . . ."

"I _will_ believe you," smiled Harold.

"He started moving down. He kissed my chest . . . then my tummy . . . then lower still. Bloody hell, Harold! He kissed by prick, and then he started sucking it! And all the time, I was telling him to stop, and he didn't need to impress me, and I wanted just to hold him.

"And, honest, I didn't encourage him. It was all his initiative, but my body wouldn't obey me, and I tried to back away, but he pulled me tight and I shot in his mouth."

James was blushing and looking flustered.

"Calm down, James!" said Harold, "It was Heaven for him too."

"But Harold! He _swallowed_ it! How could such a pure, beautiful, loving boy do such a dirty thing?"

Harold was silent: his mind was going back to the body-fluid potions he had swallowed with Tom and the brothers; and the enchanted world of Love that had followed.

James was wittering on: "It wasn't like daredevil Harold licking a drop from Martin: Alexander seemed to be actually _enjoying_ it. I thought the Club was going to be brilliant, but I feel in Limbo: I don't know whether it's all gone tits-up or not."

There was only one cure for this sort of nonsense: Harold pulled James's foot towards him and licked the sole.

James shouted: "Gerroff!" and pulled his foot back, giggling and drawing both legs up to his chest.

"You're a whinger, James Gloyne," said Harold, "This one's too young; the next one'll be too old. If you join the Nine O'Clock Club, the only thing you can be certain of getting is a penis.

"So just rejoice: when you're old and decrepit, you'll be looking back on last night as the most wonderful night ever."

"Second. I know, I know, said James, "Let's leave it for now. I'm ready for sleep."

"Well you're not getting any yet," laughed Harold, "You told me about Thursday, but you never told about what led up to it."

"It's all history now."

"I gave you my history; you ought to give me yours. When did you realise you were gay?"

"A year and a bit ago."

"You should have told me, you twit."

"I didn't like to; I was ashamed."

Harold laughed and told James: "No-one who matters would have thought the worse of you."

"No, but it wasn't just being gay; I fell in love."

"With a boy?"

"Of course with a boy! You're the twit now."

"Well, a year ago I was straight as a stripe, and look at me now. I suppose your boy was straight?"

"Yeah."

"I bet that happens to gays all the time. Still, it's the way of the world. Now the Nine O'Clock Club has solved your problem."

They abluted and got into their pyjamas.

Harold had no sooner got his head on the pillow, than he was up and sitting on James's bed again.

"You can call me insensitive, James," he said, "Of course the Nine O'Clock Club _won't_ have solved your problem if you're still in love. Are you?"

"More than ever," said James, "Totally; arse over tit; for ever and ever."

"Tell Uncle Harold about it. Who's the lucky boy?"

"Irrelevant."

"Why? I'm your mate; There's no point in being miserable alone."

"Who says I'm miserable? I'm a bit guilty about Alexander, and a bit guilty about my Great Love, but by and large, I'm deliriously happy. It's you who's going on about some non-existent problem."

"I give up. I'm only a dumb Hufflepuffer."

"You're just, loyal, patient and true. Do you remember when you kissed me?"

"Yeah, when Cedric died. It was horrible."

"Do you remember what you said?"

"No, the whole night's a blur."

"You said _Thank God it wasn't you_."

"I know that sounds awful, but it was what I felt, and you can't be expected to weigh your words when that sort of thing happens."

"I had a far worse thought."

"What was that?"

"There was a little bit of me that felt glad that Cedric died, because it got me that kiss and those words."

"We can't help our thoughts, James. Anyway, why are we talking about Cedric. Rest in Peace, to his honoured memory, but we were talking about . . . what _were_ we talking about?"

"The great love of my life."

"Oh yes . . . er . . . what's that got to do with Cedric's death?"

James laughed, and said: "You _are_ a dumb Hufflepuffer! What happened after Cedric died?"

"We had a cuddle . . . Oh! With Johnny Rudd! Is he your Great Love? That's brilliant 'cos he and you have gone gay at the same time."

James laughed and laughed.

"What's so funny?" asked Harold.

"You!" said James, "Anyone else would have had enough self-awareness to have twigged. Maybe that's why I love you."

"I love you too, of course," said Harold, but we don't need to say so—Oh, bloody hell! It's ME! But we're together twenty-four-seven. So what's the fuss?"

"The fuss is that I've lusted after you since . . . since before the Change of Life."

"Get away!"

"Yeah, I used to dream of shagging you before I was _able_ to shag."

"Hang about," said Harold, and left the bed.

He walked across the room, and flopped inside Wayne's curtains and onto his bed.

"Wayne," he said, "I need a little gay theory lesson."

Ten minutes later, he went back to James's bed and slipped through the curtains.

James lay sleeping with his hand under his cheek, breathing noiselessly.

Harold took of his pyjamas and started taking off James's.

"Whatyer doing?" said a wideawake James.

"Taking your pyjamas off, and getting into bed with you," said Harold.

He lay on his back.

"Get on top," he commanded, "Ow! Take some weight with your knees and elbows."

James obeyed, and opened his mouth to speak, but Harold pulled his head down and kissed him.

They began to snog; a long romantic snog.

Harold had always loved James, but now he was no longer part of the furniture: he was a James who was passionately in love with Harold, and if availability went a long way towards sexual desirability, how much more aphrodisiacal was another boy's love and lust.

As he lay with his legs wide, hugging and stroking James, and feeling his friend's body quiver, while his tongue flickered inside Harold's mouth, Harold had the same emotions and physical sensations as he had had that first night with Adam.

He felt himself getting excited, and drew his legs up, wanting to move to the next phase before an orgasm arrived.

"Move off a little," he told James, and rolled backwards, resting his legs on James's shoulders. He was going for what Wayne had called the _Most intimate_ position, rather than _Best for beginners_.

"Now, push it in slowly," he said.

James hesitated and might have spoken, had Harold not told him: "Don't piss about! My arsehole's primed. Get it in NOW!"

James put his penis on the spot and pressed.

Harold felt his hole stretch and give him a sharp spasm of pain, which he was careful to conceal.

Then nature took its course: Harold had an orgasm just as James started shagging him.

The shag lasted all of fifteen seconds. James had demonstrated his hot lust for Harold.

The boys separated, and settled themselves for the night.

Harold didn't bother with cleaning up. Wayne had said that mess didn't matter and was all part of the package.

"Let's say it once," said Harold, "I love you James."

"I love you Harold."

"I suppose that's my virginity gone."

"You can take mine whenever you want."

"Yeah, there's no need to plan ahead. Let's sleep."

"Not before I've said thank you."

"No need. Now get to sleep."

They stayed as close together as possible during the night, and woke in a fairly intimate position, which became more intimate as Harold demanded that James shag him again.

This time it took a bit longer, but Harold's orgasm was still as strong.

James, like Harold, was a quiet comer, but his body had told Harold that he it was experiencing the same joys as the screaming Adam.

Yes, Adam. At Christmas, he would get Adam to do him; and Luke and Tom . . . well, maybe not Tom. And, as he'd told James, there was no need to plan ahead: James's skinny prick was all he had to think about.

"That was a beautiful gesture, Harold," whispered James, as they lay cuddling each other, "Can we do it again one day?"

"We're doing it this evening; and every night of term. We'll sleep together, and you'll bum me as often as you want."

"Oh Harold!" said James, and they kissed.

"Do you want to bum me?" he said, after a time.

"Maybe one day; in a year or so," said Harold, "But that doesn't make me your girlfriend: I'm your boyfriend, and you're mine."

"Oh_ Harold!_" said James, again.

People were stirring, and it was time to get up.

As Harold emerged from the bed-curtains, Ernie Macmillan said: "Morning Harold; you and James sorted out your prank?"

"The prank is that me and James are boyfriends," smiled Harold.

Ernie smiled too. "Good luck to you both," he said.

"Okay, mate?" called Wayne, from the other side of the room.

"Spot on, thanks," said Harold.

They met Martin Murch on the way in to breakfast.

"Seventh floor tonight, and you can get your revenge," he said.

"No, I'll be with my boyfriend," said Harold.

The news spread quickly, but the reaction was not one of surprise, or assumption that this was one of Harold Holmes's pranks: the general feeling was: _Love's a funny thing_.

**14**

In November, Harold received an owl, forwarded by his parents:

_3(Dear+) Harold,_

_Still working hard but moved from O to A-level and it's a lot of fun. With just the three of us we have had to work differently relying more on the family and Tom is 3happy to be a tower of strength and a mine of information. Hope you are learning a lot and doing a lot at school and at Xmas the four of us can have the fullest possible exchange of info. _

_Adam, Luke, Tom N(OX)_

Harold smiled, and mentally translated:

_Darling, Darling, Darling, Harold,_

_We are having lots of wonderful sex including oral and anal. This involves brother-and-brother sex and Tom is very, very happy to use his prick and his arsehole. We hope you are getting lots of all sorts of sex and when we meet we can have red-hot four-way sex. Huge love & kisses._

He smiled at the happiness of his friends, and wondered whether Tom had succeeded in getting his fat prick up either or both of the brothers.

He turned to James, and told him: "I need your help, boyfriend."

"You'll have it, boyfriend."

"I want you to help me learn about O-levels and A-levels between now and Christmas."

"How do I do that?"

"I'll explain tonight."


End file.
